Forgiven, But Not Forgotten

Generally, when I think of forgiveness, I tend to think of the humbling relief that comes from being honestly forgiven after you’ve said something hurtful that you didn’t mean, or, at least, didn’t mean to say. But forgiving someone else can be a nice feeling, too, but it normally comes after a lot of not-so-nice feelings.

You know that person in the world who you’d rather eat a large helping of mud than have to talk to because they did something – either because they’re stupid or just downright mean — that ripped you into little bite sized bits? Well, I ran into my I’d-rather-eat-mud person yesterday.

I wasn’t exactly thrilled when I saw her, but we were both standing in the same line, so hiding or pretending I didn’t notice she was standing right beside me weren’t really options. And so, with an oversized amount of awkwardness and civility hanging in the air and swirling around our heads, we chatted briefly about pointless, frilly things that neither of us cared anything about – the weather, hair dye – and talked so vaguely about our lives you’d think we kept the smallest details as close to our hearts as a card shark keeps his hand. 

As our line came to an end, and we parted, I wished her well. And you know, I actually meant it. I honestly hope life turns out well for her. I still don’t trust her any farther than I can throw her, and I have no desire to go out for Starbucks with her, or to sit around a campfire singing Kumbaya and roasting marshmallows. She hurt me, but knowing I’d forgiven her — even though she’ll never know I have — made me feel like the last bitter string of our former friendship had been cut, and I was free.

Even though I can’t flip a switch and erase the unpleasant words that were said in the past from my mind, she no longer unconsciously has any control over me, because I’ve let it go; I’ve wished her well.

Forgiveness is very freeing.