Forgiveness

The fall after I graduated from college, I found myself working a collection of jobs, one of which was "Youth Pastor" for a collection of youths at the church I grew up attending.  Hands down, this was the worst-fitting job I've ever held.  Hard.

One of my responsibilities that year was to lead chapel times for the All-Church Retreat in February.  I scrabbled through my past for replicable experiences.  I resorted to google for ideas.  I settled on some finalists, gathered materials, and packed more than I've ever packed for a camping trip.

Night two of the retreat, I'd set up stations around the chapel and invited people to "walk through" the Lord's Prayer: to read a line or two from the prayer and respond in a particular way.  Thank you, google.

"Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us."

The (downloaded) commentary for this verse commented on the difficulty of this request. In repeating these words, we're actually only asking God to use against us the measure we use against others.  In other words, if we desire forgiveness, we must forgive.  Do you have unforgiveness in your life? the devotion asked.  For this activity, I had assembled a collection of stones and invited participants to choose one, if they so wished, which would symbolize an unforgiveness in their lives.  To hold the stone, pray over it, feel the weight of it and thus the weight of their sin in their life, and, when they felt ready, to drop it into a bucket of water I'd set on the floor.

Despite the fact that I'd left God on the side of the highway as I travelled across Colorado the previous summer, I maintained my facade at the church and participated in my own prepared activities I didn't believe in.  I got to this station that night and without hesitation I knew the unforgiveness bearing down on my life, sending me into the deepest darkest loneliest place I'd ever dwelled.  I held that stone in my hand, recollected the moment I left Colorado simultaneously adopting this great resentment.  I held this stone in my hand and I allowed angry thoughts about broken friendships to fill me.  I knew I should let all of this go, drop the stone in the pail of water and move on.  I refused and sat awhile longer.

Meanwhile, my friend Liam, age 3, approached.  He eyed the piles of rocks, the bucket of water and his eyes lit up. He knew what to do without reading a word or having a word read for him.  He looked at me, his preschool teacher, and noticed the rock in my hands.  He reached over the rocks, instructions, and water, briefly put his hands on my closed fists and with gentle little-kid fingers, took that significant rock from me and plopped it joyfully into the bucket of water, splashing our knees and forearms in the process.  He smiled, picked up another rock from the pile and plopped it into the water, too. Plop, plop, plop. He made it look so easy, joyful even.

A couple years earlier, a sister and I took our inaugural bike trip, which she entitled, "Finding God on the Highways...."

A couple years later, I took a bike trip on my own.  One night in northern Missouri, I found myself sitting on the bank of the Mississippi River in a forest of small stones that immediately reminded me of those I'd collected for that devotion from that job I'd rather forget.

"I should take one of these," I thought.

Pastor Judy Peterson's words, from a marvelous wedding homily, rang in my ears: "Pack light."  

Why would I choose to carry  more weight, dead weight, on my bike?  I picked up a stone, stroked its smooth surface, and replaced it on the ground.

Forgiveness. Finally.