Forgiveness 101

"I'm sorry that I did this." These are Maïa's words, and I hear them before I see what she's done.

What in the world is it now, I wonder. I look up, and I see my brand-new round styling brush—the one I've just told her not to touch—rolled up into and dangling from her waist-length hair. I tell her it's okay, I'll fix it.

She's asked for my forgiveness, and I've barely given it a second thought; of course I forgive her. Despite my assurances, she tells me she's sorry, again and again, as I carefully untangle the mess. Maïa has already learned that when we've made a mistake, we're pulled away from the one we've wronged. And the person she's wronged is the very person who can make it right again.

Asking for forgivenss is one of the hardest things for people to do. It means owning up to being mean, or just plain dumb. Saying, "I'm really sorry I hurt you," opens up a space for being rejected or for knowing that our mistakes have been revealed. Yet it is in this revelation, this kind of relational nakedness, that we can begin to heal. More likely than not, the hurt party will both admit they've been hurt and
acknowledge our contrition. Instead of grudges taking hold and growing disproportionately, we can make amends and begin walk together with the other on the road to healing.

Maïa could have chosen not to tell me what she'd done. She could have pulled at the brush, tangling it worse. Then she would have had to rip or cut her hair out of the situation. She might have then tied it into a lopsided pony tail, hoping that I wouldn't notice the brokenness. Instead, she came to me. Not to Grandma or to Daddy, who didn't know she had been warned, but to me.

Every day, I understand a little more the phrase from Isaiah, "and a child will lead them."