Amy’s Grace
Her Perspective By Sharla Gorder
Turn… turn… turn…
“To everything there is a season… and a time to every purpose under heaven.”
At least that’s what King Solomon said — and the 1960s band, the Byrds.
I play this song often during the cooldown portion of a class I teach at the Y. It is especially resonant for me this time of year as we turn, turn, turn the corner from the heat and buzz of summer to the cooler, slower days of fall. Intensity gives way to mildness, heaviness to airiness, glare to glow.
And holding on to letting go.
The trees relinquish their summer blooms. The monarch butterflies embark on their journey south to Mexico. The sea oats here on the beach release their seeds to the wind.
Nature has no problem letting go. Why, then, is it so hard for me?
I’ve been holding on to a resentment for so long that it feels like it has always been a part of me. I don’t know how to let it go. In fact, it feels scary to think about forgiving. I don’t want to be hurt again.
Forgiveness is a fickle thing — or we make it so. In our minds, we often equate it with complicity, capitulation, or even weakness. But the truth is, forgiveness is anything but weak. It is our superpower. It is grace made manifest.
A couple of years ago, I witnessed the most heart-wrenching demonstration of mercy I have ever seen. It changed me.
I was making my way down the walkover to the beach when I got the call.
“She’s gone,” a quavering voice said.
My heart stopped. My friend went on to tell me that her little dog, Ronnie — her very best friend in the world — had been killed, eviscerated, actually, while sunning herself on the front porch. A neighbor’s German Shepherd had escaped his backyard and gone on a tear. Ronnie died in Amy’s arms.
I arrived at Amy’s house 10 minutes later to see a small group of people gathered in the open garage next door. The neighbors, visibly shaken, had witnessed the gruesome attack. The owner of the rogue dog sat among them.
He was wrecked.
He stood when Amy approached, surely with no idea how to adequately apologize for such a tragedy.
Amy — shy and shattered Amy — walked up to the young man and embraced him.
“You didn’t mean for this to happen,” she said quietly.
I will never forget this interaction. I am crying as I write these words.
Amy and this young man did not become best buddies. I don’t think they ever interacted again. And Amy, I am sure, was tasked with the burden (or gift?) of choosing forgiveness over bitterness anew each day as she processed the grief and loneliness of her loss. But she made that choice from the get-go — a choice born of her faith and empathy. It must have been scary to go out on that limb in such a fragile state, allowing herself to feel the pain of another alongside her own horrendous pain. A total stranger’s pain.
Forgiveness, I’ve come to understand, is not just saying the words. It is deeper than that. It asks a lot of us but gives so much in return. It sometimes requires us to reach beyond our own pain and acknowledge the humanity of the very person who hurt us. That vulnerability is scary as we put ourselves in the shoes of our offender and find a way to relate, even as we find a way, if necessary, to detach. It’s tricky.
But it is beautiful.
With that first oh-so-humble, ever-so-merciful gesture of compassion and forgiveness, Amy had thrown her seeds to the wind.
Where they took root and prospered.
Where they inspired her dear friend to write this story — and throw my own seeds to the wind.
