“You have to forgive me!” And Other Lies

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Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

I was having a conversation with my dad the other day (if someone yelling over you for an hour can be called a conversation), and he said that I need to forgive him. Otherwise, God won’t forgive me.

You see, to my dad, I haven’t forgiven him because I don’t trust him. To him, forgiveness means reconciliation and unconditional relationship. It means giving him license to hurt me over and over and over. And it doesn’t matter that there has been no true repentance (I’ll talk about that in another post). I’m supposed to forget and act like everything is okay when I am being psychologically pounded into the earth.

Literally, I felt like someone was sitting on my chest. I could barely move, my limbs were so heavy.

But no, I’m supposed to “forgive and forget.” Which, by the way, isn’t even in the Bible.

 

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And unfortunately, that’s the view that the church has taught.

They say that if he apologizes, you need to trust those words. You need to believe that he is a changed man even if everything in you screams it’s a lie. It doesn’t matter that abusers are master manipulators. It doesn’t matter that there has been no true repentance (I’ll write about that in another post).

They say you need to pray more, be more loving and kind. Then he’ll be convicted to change his abusive ways. I’ve got news for you: that makes abuse worse. Being more loving does not convict him. It tells him he is right—you are the one who needs to change because everything is your fault.

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But here’s the thing, I have forgiven my dad. But my forgiveness looks like acknowledging that his abuse is not okay and trusting God for justice in the situation. I’m not trying to punish him. I don’t wish any harm or pain upon him.

I forgive, but I don’t trust him. I forgive, but I will not condone his sin by allowing him to be cruel to me. I forgive, but there can be no reconciliation. Not while he’s abusive.

And that is okay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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What Emotional Abuse Feels Like

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Am I crazy? What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I ever express myself to him in a way he will understand? Maybe he’s right—I don’t know how to communicate…

These are the thoughts that swirl through your mind. Reality is a shifting surface, and every time you think you’ve grasped a corner of it, it is ripped away. He acts like you are crazy, and sometimes you almost wonder if he’s right. Other times, you feel the burn of injustice, and you get angry, you stand up for yourself. But by the end somehow you are apologizing to him again.

He’s a good guy, a godly man, you remind yourself. So why do I feel so terrible?

You don’t know what’s wrong, but you know that something is, so you wonder if he’s right—it’s you, your mother, your sister. He’s the victim of unreasonable, overly-sensitive, paranoid, controlling females.

You are always on-guard, always braced, waiting for the next mood swing. He is unpredictable, and so you try harder to read him, to anticipate his wants, to not set him off. If you could just be more sympathetic, he wouldn’t feel like you were ungrateful for how hard he works. If you could just be less “Type-A,” he wouldn’t feel like you are trying to control him. If you could just be less needy, he wouldn’t seem to despise you. If you could just be more enthralled with what he has to say, one day his attention tank will be filled up and he’ll have a little left over to give to you.

It doesn’t work.

You are trapped, but as hard as you try, you can’t see the ropes that bind you.

Photo by Mario Azzi on Unsplash

Maybe I’ve had it all wrong my whole life (no big surprise there)

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I’ve been reading Love, Medicine, and Miracles by Bernie Siegel, which is about how our perceptions, beliefs, and hope effects our healing and health. I started thinking about how God calls us to have faith—and I found myself questioning beliefs I hadn’t even put into words before…

Maybe I’ve had it all wrong my whole life. Maybe faith isn’t like a currency. God doesn’t ask us to have faith because he wants to make sure we’re doing our part. It’s not like we better have enough faith or he won’t do anything for us. He’s not sitting up there irritated because we can’t get it together enough to trust him.

In my church background, faith meant standing firm, holding on to what you want with everything you’ve got. You want to get physically, emotionally, or mentally healed? Then don’t settle for anything less. Healing is your birthright. Faith as small as a mustard seed can move mountains, so if that mountain staring you in the face doesn’t move, you must not have a seed’s worth.

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But maybe faith is being okay with not getting healed. Maybe it’s leaning in to God and crying because you have to let another dream, another friendship, another person go. But you have faith that he has still made your life worth living.

Maybe it’s more like how he told us to rest. He didn’t do that to give himself another reason to punish us when we fail to take our Sabbath. He did it because he knows we need rest. He knows we will work ourselves to death in fear and greed and workaholic-ism. He knows he needs to tell us to slow down, to rest like he did for at least one day each week.

Maybe he tells us to have faith because he wants to partner with us in our healing. Maybe it’s a gentle voice that puts his mighty hand on our back and says, “It’s okay, I’ve got this. We will get through this together.” Maybe he knows that we need the peace faith brings in order to have enough hope to get healing.

Maybe faith has a lot more to do with hope than I ever realized. Maybe faith isn’t something you strive for. It’s just hope mixed with trust.

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I’m beginning to realize why faith, hope, and love are so inseparable in the Bible. They are all, in essence, facets of the same thing. I guess that makes sense, since they are all part of God’s nature, and he is one.

So with that, may you have hope in your brokenness today.

Look Out the Window!

It seems like the more I fly, the more nervous I get. It’s like my panic sensors know that my odds of crashing are going up each time I launch into the air. Still, even with my mind screaming that I’m going to fall to my death every time the plane’s engine changes pitch, I love staring out the window. So, when I flew from Minnesota to Texas to visit my husband’s family, I was super excited to find out I’d scored window seats for both flights.

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I’m pretty sure I am an anomaly in this. When I looked around the plane, almost everyone had the shades slid down to block the sun. They plugged in headphones and stared at screens as the earth shrank beneath us.

Now, it’s not like I’m a technophobe or an unplugged saint. I admit I took advantage of the in-flight entertainment to finally watch Ant Man and the Wasp. But I also took time to stare out the window.

There’s a strange wonder in it—mini houses, cars like insects glinting in the sun, roads curling around frozen lakes, human life shrunk to snow-globe size. Then the landscape of clouds, layers of ocean waves and mountains in brilliant white. It reminds me how small I am, how small all my worries and plans are, even how small this span of history is that we live in.

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Photo by Jeremy Ricketts on Unsplash

 

My writing teacher used to talk about how important it is to stop and pay attention. “Don’t hydroplane through life,” she’d tell us over and over. I think she was right. Paying attention to the view out that airplane window reminded me how small we all are. How small all my worries and plans are. Even how small this span of history is that we live in.

It’s a healthy reminder.

Down on the ground, everything is always coming at us, reminding us how messed up the world is, how much there is to fear. The media is always shouting that the end is here, disaster is upon us. Suspended in a metal tube thousands of feet above our planet, the noise can seem just a little quieter. But only if I pay attention.

So do one thing today.

Stop. Notice. Whatever the small and beautiful things around you are trying to say, listen.

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Photo by Ksenia Makagonova on Unsplash

Version 2

Rust

Here is the final draft (as if I can ever say a piece of writing is actually finished) of the poem I wrote a few weeks ago (I Didn’t Realize what a Strange Childhood I Had) As you can see, it changed a lot!

My Mother

cried as she drove up the driveway past the rusting hulls

of trucks, the blue sawmill devoured

by raspberry bushes, the log piles shedding their bark. She told me

marriage is the worst kind of loneliness. She watched

the ever-growing string of tractors in the muddy field,

felt the strain of engines pulling against hungry earth

as my brother and I waded up to our chins in the front pond,

a cathedral of cattails above, stagnant water singing with frogs and here

and there a dead, stringy form beneath.