I’ve spent a good potion of this last year trying to will forgiveness into existence in the tightly twisted ravines of my heart. As much as I labored and strained trying to summon that phantom forgiveness, I couldn’t find a way to make it be. There were even points along the way when I questioned the necessity of the act, defiantly thinking, “Why should I?” Why should this enormous burden be on me to forgive them? (cue indignation) After all, wasn’t I the person who was hurt here? Wasn’t Ithe one who been wronged? (indignation upon indignation ) I kept hoping that time was the answer; that as more and more of it passed, forgiveness would simply seep down deep into the soil of my heart and create some room for me to breathe. But left unattended, unforgiveness always grows, it blossoms and blooms, becoming prolific. Given enough room, unforgiveness sprouts and evolves into it’s very own thing – connected to, but somehow totally separate from the people and things that need to be forgiven. So at a certain point – I couldn’t tell you exactly where – it stopped being about what this person had done to me and it became about what I couldn’t do for them.
I couldn’t forgive them.