There are qualities that I inherited from my parents that are as prominent as the sun woven in the unique fibers of my being. For example, my dad has an amazing sense of direction. You can put a blindfold on the man and drop him in the desert and he’d manage to find his way back to town. I have that as well. My mom is a born decorator. She takes pride in her home and loves to fill it with beautiful things both old and new. The process of making a house a home excites her. I have that as well.
I have my mom’s facial features and form. I have my dad’s passion for words and leading. But I do not have their heart for forgiveness.
There are things I don’t like to write about. Things that happened that have shaped my view of the world, people, and god. Things that evoke feelings I am not ready to form words around quite yet. But I carry those experiences with me. Sometimes they feel very heavy and it consumes all my my energy just to stand up and face the day with them inside. Sometimes they feel so small that I forget for a little while that they are even there, like a pebble in my pocket.
My parents have had their share of struggles. They have been treated terribly awful and seen the face of satan from the pulpit on Sunday. I have seen the bruises from the word jabs hurled their way, but still they forgive. The wounds from vicious lies scarred deep, but still they forgive. The traumas of fatigue and stress, but still they forgive.
I haven’t yet learned how to do that. I’m a 31 year old woman that feels like that same little 12 year old girl from my past over and over again each time I hear about some shitty person my parents encounter. It makes me hot and angry and steals my breath away every single time.
A part of me feels that those people don’t deserve forgiveness.
What they deserve is to feel exactly how I do.