I’ve decided to forego the introduction to Thirty Days of Forgiveness and cut to the chase for the rest of the practice. If you just got here you can check out the explanation on my Oct. 27th post.
What must die?
The life sentence I’ve levied against those who have betrayed my trust. And against myself for the times I’ve abused the trust others have given me. Refusing to consider all the positive life lived as long as there is one incriminating act of betrayal languishing somewhere in the past, as if it is a permanent blight.
If to forgive is to love, am I ready to love?
People don’t change until they become uncomfortable enough to want to change. It’s the reason so many stories of life-changing transformation start with someone “hitting bottom.” Losing everything. The proverbial crash and burn. Would rather die than go on like this.
But once someone wants to change he or she is absolutely capable of change, even if takes a ridiculous amount of time to figure out how. Even if there is a ridiculous amount of trial and error. And setbacks. I know this is true because I changed. Trust, like so many things, boils down to a choice. A decision. An offering. A commitment to faith in redemption. A commitment to giving everyone the best possible chance to succeed, despite the implied odds.
What pain must I face?
I wasn’t trust-worthy because I wasn’t trust-capable, but the plain fact is that my trust issues didn’t really come from the frailties of others but from my own weaknesses. My compromised values regarding myself created the expectation that others would betray me, and then I had the nerve to be disgusted and hysterical when they followed through. Hell, I practically dared people to betray me. I watched and waited for it. And then I reveled in the pain while flagellating myself for not knowing better–for being so hideously betray-able. If I can turn this fucked-up, disordered pattern of behavior around, who am I to say that someone else can’t do the same?
Can I own this publicly?