FORGIVENESS
for·give [fer-giv]
–verb (used with object)
1. to grant pardon for or remission of (an offense, debt, etc.); absolve.
2. to give up all claim on account of; remit (a debt, obligation, etc.).
3. to grant pardon to (a person).
4. to cease to feel resentment against: to forgive one’s enemies.
5. to cancel an indebtedness or liability of: to forgive the interest owed on a loan.
–verb (used without object)
6. to pardon an offense or an offender.
We Christ followers talk about forgiveness a lot. We tell each other we NEED to do it or it will just eat us up inside. We hear stories of other people forgiving other people and blessings pouring in because of it. But when it comes to OUR lives and what it means to forgive, that’s when the word “forgive” becomes an impossible action.
When I did the unforgivable, Brian graciously forgave me. Not immediately… but after he processed what it really meant to forgive… he CHOSE to. He didn’t HAVE to… but he CHOSE to. Many people forgave me. Brian’s family, my sisters, my Dad, our friends. They CHOSE grace over judgment on me.
All except one.
My mother hasn’t forgiven me. I doubt she ever will.
I’ve caused her great embarrassment. Children are an extension of the parent and I am one seriously tangled mess of an extension cord. I’m no longer a viable showpiece because I’ve revealed the “wizard of oz” behind the curtain… and the reality is I’m nothing great. I’ve failed her. And that’s all I know because she hasn’t spoken to me since August 2009.
But here’s where I’m gonna get real with you. I’m gonna show my ugly and I’ll be honest… I’m a little scared right now. But, I’m gonna do it anyway (please be gentle).
I have NO right to ask for her forgiveness. I don’t have ANY place to receive it even if it was offered…
… because I haven’t forgiven her either.
Most of my counseling time is spent working through my childhood and how that’s manifested it’s way into my adulthood, relationship with Brian, and relationship with my children. 75% of my therapy time is spent digging up painful memories of how my mother treated me, looking at it, mourning it, and letting it go.
I’m not blaming my mother OR my past for my adult actions. However, how can you really change if you’ve never gone back to look at the problem face-to-face? I’ve NEVER grieved anything or allowed myself to FEEL. And I don’t want to live the rest of my life like that.
In Matthew 26:28, Jesus says:
“This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.”
So… here’s the hard part. Forgiveness isn’t just for me. Forgiveness isn’t just for those who forgive me. Forgiveness is for EVERYONE who chooses Him. Forgiveness is for those who haven’t or will not forgive me. Not forgiving my mother is like drinking poison and waiting for HER to die. So, I need to forgive…
… every disapproving look, sneer, grunt, glare.
… every time I was called ugly, fat, stupid, “the devil”.
… every slap in the face & body-slam into the walls.
… every weeklong silent treatment.
… EVERY wrong ever committed against the childhood me.
… not because I “have” to… but because I’ve been FORGIVEN by the Greatest. And so has she.
So, why do I still have the bottle of poison at my lips?
Words
As a small child, I remember my WORDS were my source of survival.
It didn’t matter if I told the truth or not… if my mother came home in a bad mood, and the surroundings weren’t exactly to her liking, you’d have to brace yourself. Most of the time, we braced ourselves emotionally… because my mother’s WORDS were her ammunition of choice, shooting at us fast and for long periods of time (I think my longest “lecture” of being told I was a waste of space lasted 5 hours on a Saturday). But if we weren’t careful with the WORDS we exchanged with her, we would also have to brace ourselves physically.
By the age of 10, I had not only learned to angle my body “just right” to protect more and hurt less from a “spanking”… but I had also carefully crafted my speech (and sometimes lack of) to manipulate situations with my mother so that I could avoid being shot at with her WORDS. And when I was “shot at”, I learned to angle my heart “just right” so I could protect more and hurt less.
When you grow up this way, you learn one of two things:
1. WORDS mean EVERYTHING and you live life CARING too much what people say.
… or …
2. WORDS mean NOTHING and you live life not BELIEVING what people say.
I am the second.
My LifeGroup Online is reading through the Bible right now and something that really struck me is how much WORDS meant in Old Testament time. Your WORD was your WORD. There was no need for a signed contract or need to doubt that someone might be lying because if they spoke it… it WAS. Their WORDS were blessings or they were curses. But what they said was final.
In Bible times, nations rose through the blessings of a father. I can no longer guard my heart from WORDS that curse… because in doing so, I’m causing more damage. By not allowing WORDS to bless me, I’m stunting my potential growth. I also cannot continue to allow my WORDS to be protective shield. By not allowing my WORDS to bless others, I’m prohibiting God from using me as He created me.
My WORDS are no longer my source of survival. They’re much more than that… I need to be intentional about my WORDS to my husband, to my children, to my family and to my friends.
My WORDS must bless… not curse.
My WORDS must encourage… not tear down.
My WORDS must instill truth… not stir-up lies.
The First Call
Many have the most amazing relationships with their siblings.
(Me, Helen & Renee on my Mom’s Porch Swing)
I do… with one of them. Helen and I have always gotten along and have never fought. It may be that she’s 6 years younger than me and her personality is pretty rad. I mean… she really gets along with just about everyone. She’s the peacemaker in our family.
My other sister, Renee, is two years younger than me. She and I are just about as polar opposites as you can get. If it weren’t for the fact that we’re sisters, we would most likely have nothing to do with each other.
Renee likes to give and receive gifts. I could care less about gifts. She talks in circles. I get straight to the point. She is VERY considerate of those around her and extremely inclusive. I am INconsiderate most of the time and pretty exclusive. She’s a dreamer. I’m so practical, I’m like Debbie Downer.
I have spent 20 of my 30 years writing Renee off. I gave up on us ever having “that kind” of relationship because we were just too different. We’re both not very careful with our tongues… she just keeps talking so eventually something hurtful comes out, and I just am quick to speak with her and painfully blunt… so we hurt each other.
Well… it’s time for some brutal honesty.
Last week, in my personal quiet time, I realized that I have hurt her more than she’s hurt me. I’m older… I’m not as sensitive… and I just had that wall up so high, I never thought who else I was keeping out. I was so busy building my walls and protecting myself, I locked someone important out to fend for herself in the gale-force winds and merciless storms. I abandoned my little sister… who needed me to protect her, invite her in and love her. In my doing “nothing”, I told her she was WORTH nothing to me.
I failed…
It’s time for me to mend what I broke. I know I’m not responsible for what choices she makes… but I AM responsible for what I hurl at her and what I throw in “her pool”. I need to stop littering.
So, I called her and told her I wanted more for our relationship than just to talk of the weather and my kids (that’s seriously all we ever talked about which is VASTLY different than what Helen and I talk about). She said she’s not sure she’s ready for this since I’ve given her NOTHING to trust that I won’t stomp all over her heart again.
She’s right… but what she doesn’t know is that I’m determined to become a safe place for her. It will probably take years. Maybe even a million… but the healing God has blessed me with after I hit rock bottom is not only for me. I cannot in good conscience live life changed and not make things right in the people I have wronged.
So, I called her… and I will call her again… and again.
I failed…
… but I am NOT a failure.
What relationships in your life do you need to make the first call?
Old Friends Becoming New
Sarah Jean (yes… that’s her first name. do not separate or she will kill you) and I have been friends since 6th grade.
No… correction. We’ve known each other since 6th grade. And though we cheered together (SJ & I are at the top right in the photo above sandwiching Marcus, my stunt partner), spent WHO knows how many hours in classes together, and had a very similar personality then… the truth is: we weren’t friends at all.
Just acquaintances.
We never shared life. We never really talked about REAL things. We just co-existed and were obviously subconsciously smart enough back then to stay out of each other’s “limelight”.
But here we are… 13 years later. Today is different.
With the epic amount of loss our little class of ‘96 has recently endured (friends dying too young, friends’ children dying, friends getting really sick…) we decided that just saying, “we’ll have to get together sometime soon.” wasn’t good enough. Sarah Jean made it happen.
Sarah Jean and Mikaelyn came down to spend the weekend with us. We even got to have lunch with Carole (pictured above in the cheer photo with her hair touching my cheek) on Sunday afternoon. We talked about real things… things that matter… things that affect us in real life. The facade came down… and we openly admitted how much we didn’t have life together.
You see those smiles above? Those were our facades. All of us. Covering our deepest insecurities, desperately trying to prove we had it all together, pretending we were the perfect “All-American” cheerleader… and that we were WORTH loving.
We WERE worth loving… no… we ARE worth loving! Just not by statuses we attained or through accolades we once longed to hear.
Our worth has nothing to do with what we do, who we know, our popularity status or what “uniform” we wear. Our worth has EVERYTHING to do with WHO died for us, WHO we serve now and HOW we love others.
See our smiles below (well… sort of)? Those are smiles of hope and realization of how blessed we are TODAY. They’re not fake… because we know, sometimes, those smiles are replaced by the ugly cry — and that’s ok.
The friendship I now have with Sarah Jean isn’t surface. It’s deep and here to stay. Yes, we live three hours away, but I am positive that if I ever needed her, she would be at my side in 4 hours flat and vice versa. I’m glad we had 13 years to live life (through pain and all) and morph into who we are now because we are better for each other TODAY than we ever would have been for each other THEN.
It’s time for all of us to hang up the past so that we can put on TODAY.
My cheer uniform is hung up.
My high school mask is hung up.
My sin is hung up… on a tree with my Savior over 2000 years ago.
Today… what I’m wearing is grace.
“I Wish I Were You”
That’s what Chance said to me today.
These are the conversations my four-year-old son and I have when we are in the car. I’m driving him to school and he says to me:
“Mommy… I wish I were you!”
This caught me off guard. Who in the world would wish THIS on themselves?
I’m a mess.
I’m wrecked.
I’m a disaster.
But as I let this question soak in a bit, I realized I, too, wished this as a child. I didn’t necessarily wish I was my mother… but I wished I was anyone BUT myself. I wished I were YOU. I wanted everyone else’s life because mine hurt too much.
Now, at 31, I can honestly say that most days, I’m glad I’m me. I’m FINALLY starting to see why I am who I am… dysfunction and all.
I AM a mess, but what work is there in perfection?
I WAS wrecked, but now I’m restored.
I’m a BEAUTIFUL disaster.
My thoughts came back to my son who was sitting in the backseat. My sweet 4-year-old who could already process wanting to be anyone but himself. My heart broke for him. I want more than anything for my children to be secure in who they are… in who God made them to be.
So, I asked Chance:
“Why do you say that? Why do you wish you were me?”
And he replied:
“Because then I wouldn’t have to go to school.”
Oh. Well… all that internal repertoire for nothing then. HA!
Ever wish you were someone else?
Running
This is the post I guestblogged over at Lynse’s portion of internet real estate a couple of days ago. In case you didn’t see it…
—————————————-
I’ve been running…
Since I was seven years old, I’ve been running.
When my parents divorced… I ran.
When I couldn’t find my significance… I ran.
When I was building my career and life… I ran.
You see, it wasn’t just the bad things I ran from. I had no idea how to process or deal with life in a healthy way. I didn’t understand that running from the issue didn’t resolve or change the issue… it only “misplaced” me. When anything ever happened to me, good OR bad, I ran.
Each time I ran, I just found myself more… lost.
This practice of running quickly trained me to stuff my feelings, hide my secrets and eventually, I was such a good runner, I ran STRAIGHT into another man’s arms.
“BE STILL AND KNOW THAT I AM GOD.”
“Still” scares me.
“Still” means I have to FACE my problems.
“Still” means I have to admit my mistakes.
“Still” means I don’t get to be all jacked-up and hopeless anymore.
“Still” means I NEED grace.
But you know what?…
“Still” also means I get to breathe.
“Still” gave me time to heal my hurts.
“Still” means that healing was just around the corner.
“Still” gave me a second chance.
“Still” means resolution and restoration.
“STILL” was exactly what I needed.
I stopped running and let others catch up with me. I let others carry me (which to be completely honest was and IS very uncomfortable for me, but needed), and more importantly… when I stopped, I realized I had no reason for running.
I spent 23 years running… non-stop. I was tired.
Floater (Part Two)
My parents’ divorce was finalized before I started Middle School.
My Mother sold our house in Seattle and bought a new one in Bellevue (45 minute distance between these two homes). She said the schools were better there so that’s why we were moving.
The next seven years consisted of my Mother transferring me through three different schools: public, private, then public again. Each time, I saw the same thing: groups of friends that have been friends since childhood. I was always the “new” girl and never found “my group”. I wouldn’t say I didn’t have friends… I actually had many friends… but no close friends.
I was a floater…
You see, growing up wasn’t easy for me. We weren’t “well-to-do” but my Mother ALWAYS provided clean clothes, shelter and plenty of food. We NEVER missed a meal and we even got to go on vacations every now and then. But that’s not all a kid needs for healthy growth.
My Mother was way too tapped out to spend quality time with any of us. She was tired all the time, never getting any breaks. She was gone by the time we got up in the morning for school (and I had cheer practice at zero period = 6:30am) and was home after 6pm.
But I had a lot of questions… overwhelming uncertainties. Lots of changes happen for a girl between the ages of 12 and 18. I needed my Mom to speak God’s purpose into me. I needed to hear that even my dreams were limitless. I needed to see that there was grace in mistakes and that mistakes are needed to help us grow. I wanted to be pretty… to be pursued… I needed to matter to someone. I needed to be significant.
However, I didn’t find any of this with my Mother.
Every question I ever asked would be quickly dismissed as “stupid”.
Every disagreement… I was “stubborn”.
Every expressed desire… “selfish”
Every time I had a crush or my heart was broken… “waste of time”
Every pursuit to enhance how I looked… “ugly”
Nothing I ever did was good enough. If I brought home an A-, “Why didn’t you get an A?”
Every thought I ever shared with her would always land us in a full out fight. I shouldn’t say “fight” because, oh… I never fought back. That would mean death… or at least a few good slaps in the face. Instead, I should say it was a “high tension lecture” that ended me with my tail between my legs. It wasn’t safe for me to express anything.
Consciously, I knew I needed companionship and couldn’t do life alone… but subconsciously, I believed I was destined to be alone. I believed if I ever cared about anyone deep enough or long enough, they would eventually leave me… just like my Dad did physically, and how my Mom did emotionally.
I was a floater… in my own home.
I realized if I was going to survive, and I was GOING to, I had to do it myself. I didn’t trust my Mother. I didn’t trust my family. I didn’t trust my friends. Controlling myself and the things around me became my obsession.
I didn’t have anyone… so I found protection within the four walls of building significance for myself.
“I will make myself into somebody! I will make myself irreplaceable!”
… so began the building of my fortress… my empire….
———–
Part One – “In My Daddy’s Lap”
In My Daddy’s Lap (Part One)
My parents divorced when I was seven.
Wait… actually… I have no idea WHEN they divorced. The accurate statement would be… the announcement of the divorce happened when I was seven.
My childhood before seven was somewhat innocently happy. I remember Dad teaching me how to play “cat’s cradle“ and Mom bringing home the most amazing birthday cakes. But what’s interesting is, I don’t remember much of anything about my family life between the ages of seven and twelve. I have NO MEMORIES of home life in that 5 year life span.
Uh… therapy anyone? Yeah… don’t worry… I’m on that like a fat kid on a box of ding-dongs.
Let’s back up a bit: The day my mother told us they were divorcing, I remember feeling EXTREMELY confused.
I was old enough to know what “divorce” meant, but I never heard OR saw my parents fight. Heck… I barely remembered ever seeing them talk. I never thought the divorce was my fault, but I didn’t know WHY they needed a divorce since everything seemed “fine”. What confused me even more was why my Mom pulled us three girls into my bedroom to tell us ALONE when my Dad was sitting right in the living room watching football. ”Isn’t this something they should be doing together?” I kept asking myself.
It felt like an hour had passed in that room. I didn’t hear a thing that was said. I remember my sister, Renee, crying and my baby sister, Helen, crawling all over the place. That baby had no clue our world was about to drastically change. All I wanted to do was get OUT of that room and jump into my Dad’s lap.
Once the “meeting” was over… I did just that.
My sister, Renee, and I ran and jumped into my Dad’s lap. I remember Renee asking him,
“Why, Daddy?… WHY? Why are you leaving us?”
Then I heard the words I would never forget:
“Because this is what your Mom wants.”
Then, the unimaginable happened. My Dad broke down and cried…
I had NEVER seen my Dad cry. NEVER…
in the center of the couch of our family room…
with football television as a faint background noise…
we sat…
weeping…
in my father’s lap for the very last time.
Something inside me died that day.
At age seven, sitting there for the last time ever in my Daddy’s lap, I made my first lifetime decision:
I was NEVER going to let anyone make decisions like this for me.
NO ONE would ever make me cry again.
And this ONE single decision ruled my life for the next 23 years…
Cabbage Patch Doll
I was 5 years old, in Kindergarten, when I really started to notice how different I was. I guess it didn’t help that I was JUST starting to get the hang of the English language, but I noticed how quickly and easily everyone befriended each other.
Everyone, but me…
As a child, I didn’t understand that it was because it was hard to communicate with me… I just thought it was because I didn’t have the same stuff they had.
Everyone had blonde hair, blue eyes… maybe even a sprinkle here and there of a gorgeous brunette or a cutie patootie freckled red-head. Everyone was unmistakably “normal”. Me? I had a homemade Asian bowl-cut hairstyle.
I was HONG-KONG-A-FIDE! (I don’t know what that means… just go with it)
It was about this time that “Show and Tell” was popular. Every little girl seemed to have a new Cabbage Patch Dolls.
Since I was already overly aware I didn’t fit in, my 5 year-old mind told me, “If you have a Cabbage Patch Doll, you’ll be like everyone else.”
I begged my parents. I mean BEGGED!!! But the same answer came out of their mouths as usual.
“We just don’t have the extra money.”
I was devastated. I hated being me.
Fast forward to first grade. It’s my birthday. HUGE package. ”I bet it’s more clothes.” I opened the package.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!! It’s a Cabbage Patch Doll!!!” No… really… I screamed. I remember this.
I was FINALLY going to be “normal”. I was finally going to fit in and not feel so alone. I was finally like EVERYONE ELSE!!!
Imagine my devastation when I brought my little “ticket-to-normalcy” to school and discovered I was still the same me as the many days before. The one thing I was certain would make me somebody, only made me feel more like an absolute NOBODY. I was STILL the kid with the Hong Kong bowl-cut. I was still “not-the-norm”.
How often do I try harder than I need, to be “the norm” when what God’s desire is for me is to be genuinely, authentically ME?
Today… I’m grateful I am different. Today… I’m thankful my story is not like everyone else’s. I’m ecstatic that Brian & My Story isn’t going to be like everyone else’s. God didn’t create us to be “normal”… He created us to be UNIQUE and completely pleasing to Him.
Nothing I own defines me.
Nothing I know defines me.
No one I know defines me.
Only GOD defines me.
My Cabbage Patch Doll was a lie. A lie I believed would make me important, when what it really was… was an idol.
What’s YOUR Cabbage Patch Doll?
Are you ready to get rid of it with me?
Jenni on Skype: jclayville 
