Forgive

A little over five years ago our family set out at dawn and trekked northward, a caravan of cars plus one behemoth of a Penske truck stuffed with our life’s belongings.

My husband had accepted a pastorate, and we were moving.

What a time. The skies were a somber, moody gray. As we drove, our windshield wipers soon flapped, dancing full throttle. Conditions grew increasingly hazardous as it became impossible to see. When we finally exited the highway to refuel, my hands ached from clenching the steering wheel.

It poured the entire 800-mile journey up the crowded highway.

Florida… Georgia… South Carolina… North Carolina… And then?

Virginia.

We slept fitfully in the hotel, rising early to meet volunteers who had planned to help us unpack, unloading approximately one million boxes from the truck.

I can still remember the feeling of the sun against my face as I stepped off our front porch, my hands tracing the porch railing. A man startled me as he hollered–Hurry up people! Let’s go! Faster, faster, faster! Come On!

I looked up just in time to see him toss our floor lamp from the height of the moving truck to an unsuspecting recipient below.

The situation unfolded in slow motion, as the lamp slipped through the receiver’s hands and landed with a hard thump and crack, resulting in a long hairline fracture and a significant hole.

I stood, silently gasping, recalling how many gift cards I had saved up to purchase this dream luminary.

Oops! The two men guffawed and shrugged, offering neither apology nor recompense.

I felt a foreboding…a foreshadowing.

My husband’s hand brushed my back as he passed by to lug more boxes.

Smile, Kristin, he whispered, and keep moving. I will buy you a new one.

We never bought a new one, and the lamp remains, sitting in the corner of our living room now, telling its own story, its damage hidden.

Yet this same lamp has become priceless in a quiet, unexpected way.

Each time I flick the switch, I am prompted to forgive.

Again, and again and again. Way down deep, in bone and marrow.

And I am no longer speaking of merely broken lamps.

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We are human beings– cracked, fragile, and in desperate need of God’s forgiveness, grace, and mending. How grateful I am to be the recipient of such forgiveness.

But I have learned that it takes long, sweeping glances at Christ for me to fully forgive others.

It isn’t too difficult to forgive contrite people. But to forgive stony-hearted people who are reckless in deed and speech, playing fast and loose with sin while claiming to be Christians?

This is when forgiveness becomes a choice, an act of faith that slices straight across the grain of my flesh. It is otherworldly, born of the Spirit.

Do you ever struggle to forgive the impenitent?

When waves of painful memories crash, I have learned to close my eyes and pray for these people by name, asking the Holy Spirit to turn their hearts fully toward Jesus in repentance. I also pray for my heart to remain anchored–pliable, tender, yet steadfast while eschewing all bitterness.

This deliberate act, relinquishing my pain and transferring the entire tangled mess into God’s hands unchains me from anger and bitterness.

I am free and filled with joy.

Forgiveness is born of obedience rather than feelings. My primary fidelity is to God and the Bible, not people or outcomes. (Ephesians 4:32, Mark 11:25, Matthew 18:21-22, Matthew 6:14-15, Luke 23:34)

Do I long for reconciliation?

I do.

Does forgiveness always lead to reconciliation?

It does not, and this article explains why.

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Late this afternoon, as autumn’s shadows crept and danced along our walls, I slipped into the living room and turned on my favorite lamp, sitting tall, elegant, and fractured.

Its broad glow warmed the room.

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