Forgiveness: The Uphill Path

"The way to Heaven is ascending; we must be content to travel uphill, though it be hard and tiresome, and contrary to the natural bias of our flesh."

Jonathan Edwards (1703-1758), Christian, theologian and author.

I have been blessed.  Most people would hear this and immediately think you are discussing your children, or health.  Yes, I am blessed with those as well.  But, I consider my most cherished blessing has been the ability to forgive.  Some would consider this no big deal, and neither did I, until I learned what it was like to hate.

I lived my entire life not really understanding what hate was.  I firmly believed hate was not in me.  Oh, I didn't like a lot of folks, but I didn't hate them.  I just found a way to either get even, or ignore them.  But none of what I experienced in life prepared me for hate.  The "die a painful death, and do it soon so I'm still alive to piss on your freshly turned grave" kind of hate.  The "I fervently hope you survive the flaming car crash that pulverizes every bone in your charred body so you can feel the unbearable pain" kind of hate.

The kind of hate that eats you alive from the inside out.  The kind of hate you feel, deep down inside, is the only thing making you feel and keeping you alive when everyone around you knows its killing your heart.  It is killing your love, even though you don't know it and if you do you deny it.  Hatred is like an addiction in a sense.  Everyone sees  the consequences, the ramifications, and the damage. 

Everyone but you.

Someone I loved taught me hate.  That hate chewed at me for thirteen years.

When I was in Mexico I visited a shrine to the Virgin of Guadalupe in a Catholic church near the mercado in the port city of Manzanillo.  The virgin is cherished in Mexico.  Her painting was off to the side, in a corner, but you couldn't hide her from the faithful.  She had more flowers and candles and offering than any others in the church.

There were only a few people in the pews up front, silent in prayer or contemplation.  I stepped up to the small table, which full of offerings, in front of her painting.  I placed my hand on it, having no offering, but wanting to say a small prayer.  Hell, I was lucky lightening bolts didn't strike me dead just for daring to cross the threshold, and here I was wanting...what?  Forgiveness?  A blessing?

I could feel the tears as they flowed freely down my cheeks.  I didn't care, about anything.  But I felt.  Without asking, without uttering a word, and without really understanding how, I felt forgiven.  And, with my own forgiveness I felt forgiveness.  My hatred lifted.  I was whole again.

I went back to the ranch that afternoon and planned the shine to the Virgin that would welcome visitors as they left the parking area.  I was blessed to see several older women take a moment at my humble attempt, to give a short prayer.  I guess I had done something good.

When I returned to the U.S. a year later, I made a point of asking folks, several times, to tell this person I have hated for so long, "I wish her well."  Coming from me, knowing how I had felt about her, they know I meant it.  I wish I could pass on my wish personally, but I'm not sure she is to that point yet.

Hatred is a natural bias to our flesh.  If the way to heaven is ascending, I am content to travel uphill.  But hatred puts a mountain in the way, and the steepness of the path during this part of the journey is debilitating.  Best to get shed of the entire feeling as soon as possible. 

A mountain hate, though it looks inviting, does nothing but slow you down.