How I Learned to Forgive

I hadn't expected to see his image

on Facebook last night.

Or to read about his cross country trips,

his wife,

his wonderful life,

how everything is going so well.

I had only intended to see some photographs

of my granddaughter

born one month ago.

But instead I saw

his face, now middle-aged

with grey hair, like mine.

I once loved this man.

Had a child with him,

who became the father of

my granddaughter.

What is it that keeps me transfixed

in front of the screen,

where I see Ron's body looming large,

his once slender form now bloated

from too many beers,

and years
of rich food, and 

living large.

I thought back to that day when our son

was one month old,

and Ron told me:

"well, it looks like we'll be raising him

from separate households."

No. I couldn't imagine raising a child alone.

But that is what happened.

This was the man who told me during

my pregnancy that I looked fat, 

and that he just wasn't attracted to fat people.

Oh, the pain

of that and so many other insults as well.

like his indifference and coldness.

I had already forgiven Rod once, over

ten years ago.

So why do I cringe when 

I see him now?

It's only a photograph.

And what happened was so

long ago.

I go to
to the Archbishop.

"Forgive often and completely.
No matter what's been done to you,"
he advises.

I know I must,

I must forgive, not now, but soon.

I must see the humanity in his eyes,

and understand that he, too,

cried.

So forgive I must.

It is required, if I want to remain

inspired.

And if I want to go on living.

How many times?

Seventy times seven?

(But I can't forget!)

It doesn't matter, you must go on

forgiving.

The unforgiveness is only

hurting you.

And I try to forgive

in order to set him free,

and to heal myself.

(But he left me without
a phone, or money, or transportation.  My
baby was sick and I had no way to call, or
to get him to a doctor.)

But I did it.  I raised a son who is now a man
and a father and a husband.
A son who is close to me and caring.

I feel the pain of that time and fear rises.
The Archbishop tells me:
These feelings are not your enemy.
They are your teacher.

I decide to call Ron and tell him
how seeing his photograph brought up painful memories. 

(But what if he insults me?  Or blames me?)
I follow the Archbishop's advice:
Imagine Ron as a baby, innocent, before he hurt you.
Think of three attributes you admire in him, and of what you need from him.
(An apology.  He needs to say he's sorry.)

I call him:  425-844-0323.
I plan to say "don't we have a beautiful granddaughter?"
I get a recorded message from a voice I don't recognize.

I look through databases with his name and find the heading:
DECEASED,
then realize I misspelled his last name.

I locate his address:  P. O. Box 710,
Maple Valley, WA  98038.

Then I write the letter,
And decide whether I should send it.