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Chapter II Continued
She had just celebrated her thirty-seventh
birthday. She came, she said, to work on anger and
forgiveness. Her mother had conceived her after being
raped by an acquaintance. Wounded and meek, the woman
never filed any charges. Now the child of that act
of violence wanted to make peace with what she called
"the unthinkable."
Her own successful marriage, her
delight in her two sons, and the enjoyment of a developing
sales career had been dimmed by the gnawing anger
she directed at phantom images of a man she had never
seen. Initially, she considered her intense emotions
as a cross of outrage she would bear the rest of her
life. Then, she held on to the bitterness to protect
herself and those she loved from such "subhuman"
behavior as the rape of her mother. Finally, exhausted
by pain, she wanted to somehow move beyond her narrow
view and come to a new understanding.
"This man has never seen me,
though he knows I exist. He is old now, riddled with
cancer. I have even located where he lives; I know
his exact address. At first, when I found him I thought
about cursing him or beating him with my fists. Oh,
God, I want out of this misery and all I do is get
myself deeper in. Instead of practicing peacefulness,
I practice rage!"
No one would fault this woman for
her wrath. Some might even see justice in a finger-pointing
confrontation with her "father." However,
she knew she had been twice the victim: first, of
a stranger's violence toward her mother and then of
her own emotional violence toward herself. The first
violence had passed years before; the second continued
simmering inside.
While exploring these issues, she
came to a crucial awareness. "If I continue to
see him as terrible, I will never let go. Never! I
really have to look at this person differently for
my own salvation." She shook her head and sighed.
"Okay. This will probably sound stupid, but the
man's a human being isn't he?" She smiled. "I
know, Bears, you won't give me the answers; I have
to find them myself. Okay, then yes, I agree with
myself; he's a human being. Violent, probably miserable,
but still human like you and me.".
"What does it mean to you to
call him human?" I asked.
"It means he's fallible. And
it means I don't have to hate him forever. If I could
just figure out how to let go of this anger, well,
then I'd be free and at peace with myself."
"How do you think you can let
go of it?"
Her eyes closed as she covered her
face with her hands. In a muffled voice, she said
"I know how to do it, I really do. Forgiving
him would be letting go." With those words she
began to cry. In subsequent sessions and in dialogues
with her own husband, she formulated a plan of action
which would change her life.
Two weeks later, she flew to a remote
Midwestern city, rented a car, and drove hundreds
of miles to a small rural village. She telephoned
this man's younger daughter, the product of an eventual
marriage, and introduced herself without referring
directly to the rape. The other woman hesitated, then
refused to invite her to the old man's home. She announced
that she would come anyway; they could turn her away
at his door if they wanted.
Old paint peeled off the side of
the house. Shutters hung askew beside blackened windows.
As she walked along a dirt path to the front door,
she saw the woman who must have spoken with her on
the phone standing on the porch with her arms crossed.
"I won't stop you," the
woman, declared coldly, then stepped aside while maintaining
her obvious vigil.
After she knocked on the door several
times, a man's voice told her to enter. One small
lamp cast its dim light over the room. An old man,
his shoulders hunched into his chest, sat quietly
in a wooden chair. The deep lines on his face seemed
chiseled by a crude and unforgiving knife. His reddened
eyes peered at her uncomfortably. When he gestured
for her to sit, his physical pain became apparent.
"I know who you are," he
said in a whisper.
She couldn't talk. He was just a
man, old and dying, nothing like the phantoms that
had whirled in her mind. She struggled to find her
voice. She had rehearsed the words hundreds of times
on the plane. It's just a decision, she told herself.
Finally, in a whisper that matched
his, she said: "I forgive you. I really do."
He nodded his head several times
and then looked away. In a voice more audible, he
said, "I'm sorry."
She rose to her feet. Just a human
being, she thought, like me. Then she surprised herself
by putting her arms around him. She had truly forgiven
him. His words of apology had no meaning for her now;
it was her new vision that had made her whole.
A vision (a frame
of reference or viewpoint) is like an invisible friend
we invent to help us make sense of unfolding circumstances.
We create visions for the best of reasons: to protect
ourselves, to honor those we love and to express caring.
But we do not have to become prisoners of our perspectives;
we can change them and our lives by developing a completely
new world picture ... one human step at a time.
Chapter
2 Continued »» |
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