If you’re interested in thinking through a Christian response to the Islamic Cultural Center near Ground Zero, you might want to mosey on over there. And check out the other articles while you’re there too! There’s some solid ideas to be had there.

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“We believe broken is beautiful,
Our scars are our strength.
Failure is an option,
And rock bottom is real place.”

~From my friends, Mike and Jud, at POTSC.Com

Check out their video:

BROKEN IS BEAUTIFUL from PEOPLE OF THE SECOND CHANCE on Vimeo.

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The first time I think about forgiveness, I’m not very committed.
I think maybe I can scrape by being “civil”.
I convince myself that is somehow the same thing.
(Like Jesus answered Peter’s famous how-many-times-should-I-forgive-question by saying, “well, the first 70×7 times, you just have to be civil”.)

The next time I consider forgiveness, I think, I’ll forgive them in my heart, sort of secretly, under the radar, but I’m done interacting with them.
They’re cut off.
It proceeds slowly from there, inching forward each time I revisit the concept of forgiveness, until my heart finally grows big enough to hold it.

The real it.
The forgiveness that God gives ME.
The kind that heals those in its wake.

So I’m happy to report my heart is growing (albeit sort of grinc-h-ily, at times).

I’m climbing that hill.
Letting go.
Renewing relationships that can be renewed.

I tell you this because writers can be hypocritical if we’re not careful.
Sometimes, in writing and in life in general, its easier to talk about flaws that you’ve already put behind you.
Or at least ones that you’ve been working on for a while.
Rather than talking about what is here and now, hurting your heart and turning you into a crazy person today. :)
Rather than admitting you are currently–right now–as a writer, still sort of a mess.

All that to say, forgiveness isn’t a “safe” topic for me yet.
It still triggers emotions, regrets and–on the upside–fresh learning.
I’m still learning.
But I wanted you to know that this year, even though I am still flawed and dysfunctional in some ways, I’m already different than I was last year.
And I’ve taken some big steps, made some things right, so that next year, I plan on being different than I am today.

How about you?

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Its a dull, achy, surreal sort of feeling.

One that jars you out of normalcy–the way we sometimes tend to sleepwalk through life–and reminds you of  just how bad things can get.

Of the emptiness that a human being can leave behind.

The school where I taught this particular young man was not an ordinary school.

At the time, it was self-contained at around 120 students, which meant I–the lone history teacher at times–taught nearly every student in the building.

I had some students for four years straight.

I don’t know how many  concurrent times I taught this particular guy along the way.

Enough.

Well and again enough to have my heart sink into my gut, molding together like heavy jello, at the news.

I got several calls and emails from former students.

Reeling.

Processing.

Regretting.

Wondering.

All the emotions that happen when death involves some level of choice.

Just a couple hours later, without too much time for reflection, I found myself performing our nightly rituals…because, even in the face of death, normalcy has to be “done”. Babies must still be fed, diapers still have to be changed, and thankfully–there is something comforting; something pure–in rocking them to sleep.

When Justus, my ten month old, gets really, really sleepy, its like he goes back in time…to his younger days, when he wasn’t quite as squirmy and sitty-uppy and rolly-over as he is now.

So he lays in my arms, eyes fluttering as he fights off the coming weight of sleep, lifting one hand up–wistfully–to touch my face, to run his chubby fingers through my hair. He sometimes widens his eyes to check to see if I’m still there and then grins at me with a delirious open-mouthed smile.

If it was possible to stay frozen in this moment, I’d consider it.

When I finally lay him in his crib, he isn’t quite all the way asleep. He breathes heavily, checking for me every couple seconds–to see if I’m still with him or if I’ve left him alone–and at last, he falls asleep with one hand stretched through the bars of his crib resting on mine.

I have no idea how I keep myself from melting every single night.

But this one leaves me especially breathless.

I can’t help but reflecting to myself, that people need to know that someone is there to hold onto.

They need to open their eyes and see someone is present, that someone is with them.

And so I resolve, as I have a thousand nights before, that we can’t afford not to be present in the lives of those we love.

And I grieve, in what might be the thousandth night, the things that deplete and restrict and edge love out of life.

I think to myself that I need to do a better job of not letting those things matter.

Let people begrudge themselves silly, let them project and speculate and analyze their energy away.

Let them build their walls, but don’t let those walls contain you.

The only person they should be allowed to hold captive is themselves.

You? You live free to go on loving.

Because life can be lost not just all at once–as it is in the tragedy of suicide. But it can also be lost, just as severely, just as painfully, in the buildup of every day moments where we let the opportunity to open our hearts slip by.

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I don’t know if you’ve been following the journey of my friends, Mike and Jud, at POTSC.com. But if this topic stirs something in you, then I suggest you head over to their website.

Today’s post (from Mike) is about eliminating the “buts”–the excuses that keep us from committing to full-fledged forgiveness. The kind of excuses we let drive a wedge between us and the people God brings into our lives.

Along these lines, I’ve decided the “but” I am going to give up today is the luxury of diagnosing other people’s weaknesses.

You know how it works.
But they’re so unhealthy.
But they’re so dysfunctional.
But they “seriously” should be diagnosed with [insert disorder of choice] .
(All of these, keep in mind, likely translate to mean they see things differently than me.)

But nothing.

I’m turning in my psychiatrist’s license today.
And, I’m not going to honor other people’s diagnoses of others anymore either.
Because the doctor, in all these cases, is likely just as sick as the patient.

Today, everyone gets a second chance. You and me both.

What about you? Is it about time you ripped up a diagnosis you wrote for someone else?

* * *

If you comment on this blog (click brown comment box under blog title) or RT/Post about this blog on Facebook, you will automatically be entered to win today’s book giveaway- Finding the Groove: Composing a Jazz-Shaped Faith. Drawing brilliant parallels between the body of Christ and the qualities inherent to jazz, Robert Gelinas points us beyond the ordinary to the often overlooked freedom, beauty, grace, unity, creativity, and power that are our birthright as believers.

This is part of the 25 Days of Giveaway leading up to the Feb. 1st release of Sarah’s book, Picking Dandelions.

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Dear Mike and Jud (my friends at POTSC.com),

Confession.
I eagerly joined People of the Second Chance,
but…you should know…
sometimes I am a Person of the Zero Chance.
…or a Person of the Minus Four Chance.
Aka A Person of No More Chances.

Here’s the deal: I’m really good–stellar good–at forgiving most offenses.
Like don’t even worry about it.
I barely noticed.
That good.

But across life, there have been a few situations–at least three that I can think of (I‘m sure there are more)–where my messed-up little soul turned out to be more stingy than all that.

One of those unforgiving sprees reared its head prior to a book I wrote about disillusionment with the church. Over the course of time (and I mean TIME) though, I let it go. And when I say I let it go, I mostly mean God pried my white-knuckled fingers off the weirdly attractive grudges one at a time.

Letting go did not come natural to me.
There was stuff in my background that made not tracking other people’s offenses counter-intuitive.
But I really and completely let it go.
And it felt FABULOUS. (Still does.)

I even threw 50 fancy musings on forgiveness into my first book from my learning.
They were genuine insights then. Still are.
But…I still struggle (honest translation: fail) to apply them in these other two situations.
(Can you sense the hypocrisy yet…?)

As it turns out, given the right circumstances (and I mean, the WRONG circumstances), my mercy can still (even after all this learning) operate on a light switch that goes on and off with a flick of my pointing, accusing index finger.

For this, mercy on.
For that, mercy off.
I’m like the forgiveness clapper.

Here is the thing that trips me up–or if I were being mature and taking responsibility for myself, I might say–here is the thing that I trip on.

What if the offenses don’t stop?

What if you forgive? You send cards, give gifts, make calls, hang out. You scrape what you think is every last drop of love from your soul.

But the things that have stirred goodness in every other arena of your life, don’t–for some reason–nurture goodness here.

The person doesn’t seem to care.
Doesn’t care they hurt you.
Doesn’t want to fix it.
Doesn’t care they keep hurting you.
Doesn’t want to prevent it from happening again.
Then what?

Fortunately, this has not been the norm for me. 99 times out of 100 in my life, apologies from any party have been followed by goodness.
But what about that 1 time out of 100?
In that 1%, I lose all grip on spiritual maturity.
I start asking the miserly-half-inch-deep-soul Peter kind of question: Really, God, how many times am I obligated to forgive this joker before I call it a day?

And the really clinically off-my-rocker part is I know the answer but I still get stuck on the question.
I get that the answer is 70×7, which in Jesus metaphor math equals keep forgiving.

I get that if I even pretended to be sane, I’d be as forgiving as I want people to be to me (hmmm. there’s a verse in there somewhere).

I get that there is no “off the hook” card. That this isn’t a giant game of Monopoly where the right Community-Chance land exempts you from forgiving certain people–the hurtful control-freak whose been chronically scarring you for years…or the adult who leaves a year’s worth of hatemail in your mailbox at work…

People do some insane things. I’m just sayin.

So, generally, on my good days, I forgive.
I find some sympathy for the people who share this dysfunctional planet with me.
They too have their insecurities.
Their lies.
Their little secrets.
Things that drive them to be people who they never set out to be.
Like me.
They are hurting,
threatened,
vying to feel okay.
Like me.

And in that reflection, a little voice inside of me suggests when God looks down on my offender, he sees the same thing I see when I peer into my baby’s crib.
A little soul that is so, so precious and in need of a lifetime of grace.
And in that grace, I forgive.
I forgive in a heartbeat.
I even want to forgive.

But–here’s the clincher–I also want things to be okay.
And that is when the trickiness begins…
I put on my civil-face.
I am nice.
I do outwardly kind things.
But what if they use my vulnerability to take another shot?
And maybe another shot.
And another one.
And they pretend they didn’t.
And they never set it right.
(Maybe its not a good idea to keep tracking all of this…?)

And it all boils down to the following poisonous soul-cycle:
1. I forgive.
2. I re-expose myself to said person (in either stupidity or in a spirit of forgiveness.)
3. I am wounded again.
4. I get bitter about it.
5. I eventually forgive.
6. I try again.
7. Wounded again.
8. More bitter.
9. Harder to forgive.
And so on and so on and so on until the end part is that I am really bitter and no longer forgiving.
At all.

This is when I realize I’ve de-volved—in certain instances—into a Person of the Zero Chance.

I start to hate who I am when my soul looks in the mirror.
Because I know I’m screwing up.
Because I know Jesus paints a radical picture of forgiveness.
A one mile, two mile forgiveness.
A this cheek, that cheek forgiveness.
A cloak and coat forgiveness.
A, dare I say it, 100 times out of 100 forgiveness.

And I get this means that the only way to survive is to grow Great Wall of China thick skin.
Man, do I get that by now.
But can I ask what the tiny desperate voice inside me wants to know?

Is there a forgiveness line that allows me to give grace while modifying the relationship?
Or is even asking that just my excuse for not forgiving more completely….as many times as needed?
I want to live clean-hearted before God.
But I also want to be healthy and okay.
And my conscience gets confused trying to draw lines that both protect my health and still include real Jesus-love for those I’ve forgiven.

So you need to know.
I want to be a Person of the Second Chance…100%.
But I’m just not there yet.
Some days I’m a long way away.

*     *     *

How does forgiveness work in your life? Do you run into dilemmas like mine? How do you overcome them? Leave a comment by clicking the brown “comment” box (that shows total comments) under the title of this blog. (New commenters’ posts will not appear immediately, but after approval – to fight spam.)

Blog commenters over the next 17 days leading up to the release of my new book, Picking Dandelions, are automatically eligible to WIN THE DAILY GIVEAWAY. Today’s, listed below, includes a transcendent theme of forgiveness. Please help spread the word on Twitter (@sarahcunning) and Facebook.

Mirror to the Church: Resurrecting Faith and Genocide in Rwanda – In 1994, the most Christianized country in Africa became the site of its worst genocide. The tragedy was in Rwanda, but what happened was a mirror reflecting the deep brokenness of the church in the West.

Oh, and if you’re coming from the site of my friends Mike and Jud, know you are welcome here any time. ;) Any friend of Mike and Jud’s is a friend of mine.

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I get nostalgic around the holidays. I think its the egg nog. Or maybe its the Charlie Brown specials?

My mind wanders back to childhood Christmases spent with people gone by.

My heart swells with appreciation for the people who share my life.

I re-remember–in nativity scenes, in Luke’s famous chapter two, in the sight of my 8 month old sleeping “in heavenly peace” in his crib–the vision a baby came to set in motion.

The serious reflections ricochet in, of course, amongst a lot of not-so-serious moments–somewhere between watching Avatar in 3-D and playing cut-throat board games  (this year’s top picks: Apples to Apples and Chinatown–the latter of which I recommend you play with your families, but not my family. The Raymond trading floor can be a bit intense for rookies).

My favorite gift, every year, is the oneness.

The people moved by commonality–celebrating, singing, eating, wishing others well in tandem. So many people collectively focusing on the common good.

And also, quirky adults randomly wear Santa hats.

Oh and people send Christmas card form letters updating you on their lives. Wait, you don’t actually like that last one? I know, I know. But let’s not tell them I’m the only one on their lists who actually reads them. Shhhh.

How can you NOT like Christmas?

This little bit of oneness goes back to the garden–to the initial gift of God’s presence, to the gift of companionship, to God’s instructions to build a family and flourish. Others were added to self…there was oneness between man and woman.

That same theme follows in the history of Israel of course. God will bless them, make their name great, bless all people–even the impoverished, the widows, the foreigners–through them. Others become part of the oneness.

The baby Jesus then? Sighhh. Our little mangers scenes don’t do him justice, man. He championed truth to shepherds and kings, called people with blood diseases “daughter”, asked the world to shift into reverse. To turn a cheek, walk two miles, give your coat off your back… and your shirt too.

To love your enemies.

To pray for those who persecute you.

To live in oneness. With God the father. And with others.

Abide in me…

Abide in my love…

That your joy may be full. (John 15)

The funny thing is as we live these things, the otherness–what makes people different, not like us, not on our side–becomes less noticeable. The oneness–what makes us all kindred, needing and wanting and fearing the same things–increases.

Men become our brothers,

Women become our sisters.

Humanity our family.

Its Christmas every day.

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My dad called me and woke me up. At 10:30 at night.


This is a bad sign. When your bedtime is passing out five minutes after your seven month old and your dad is up later than you.


Gets better. When the phone rang, I thought it was morning.


And I was hoping it was the phone-tree. Calling to tell me we have a snow day.


I checked my caller ID.


My parents? This early in the morning? (Or 10:30 at night, for those tracking on normal people, non-baby time.) Something must be wrong.


A list of disasters rolls through my head. Bad news. I can feel it. I answer quickly hoping reality is better than the things I can imagine.


It is.


My dad and grandpa were in a car accident coming home from Columbus, Ohio in the wintery conditions. They swerved three times. Spun into the concrete barrier. ON THE FREEWAY.


He said had there been other cars to smash into it could’ve killed them.


I breathe a sigh of relief and think to myself, as I feel like I do on a daily basis, that life is precious. Fleeting. A vapor in the wind.


I’ve always been one to notice this (maybe it was all those funerals my dad was always conducting), but I notice it more the older I get. Ya know?


The call could’ve been about anybody. A good reason to check your heart. To make sure things are right between you and those you love.


I understand death is a part of life. But that doesn’t mean I’m prepared to lose some people right now. Sadly, on my most honest days, there are some people I have unfinished business with. Unfinished business of the heart, that is.


I don’t want to lose anyone; I don’t want to be lost. But one thing is for sure, if the choice ever gets taken out of my hand, I don’t want to have any love lost between us.


I love you, people.

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