Dying for Forgiveness

It's a whirly wind of an evening and my girl and I are already in our pajamas.  She has tired all over her and her first "real" high school finals to study for.  We bought our dinner and brought it home to eat cozy on the couch.  I stopped at the store and replenished the candy for "my kids" at school tomorrow and it sits ready in the back seat of my car.   I'm settled in thinking through the day; the snapshot moments that my mind plays back.

I couldn't sleep last night;  part caffeine, part menopause, part the weighty matter of waiting on forgiveness from someone rolling around in my mind.   Another friend sleepless popped up in a tiny message on my computer screen.  "How do you handle rejection?", she asks in the middle of the night and I laugh soft to myself.  Irony.  "I don't sleep," I say.  "Give them time."  I saw my own words on the screen and had my own answer.

My friend brought me Starbucks and we sat for a happy hour talking in the store, our words punctuated by the occasional kid that stopped by for a hug or a scoop into the candy bowl.  We talked all things that we understood about each other and I told her I'd felt like disappearing lately; fighting it.  "I haven't been to church in three weeks.  I'm just not wanting to step out.  I feel like Vincent in Starry, Starry Night.  This world just feels too harsh to me."  I shrugged and saw her look off distant and fight back tears.  "I need you there.  It comforts me to see you."  I was startled that someone would say that about my presence in a big church building.  It caused me to sit up straight with resolve.  "Alright then.  I'll be there."

Then another friend, and we danced the happy dance that her new house would be hers to nest in before Christmas after all.    We each have  girls who are becoming fast friends and an eagerness to strip off what isn't real and get straight to the heart of a matter.  We've both learned hard things the past week and cried shared tears of lessons humbling.  She tells me of the cupcakes she needs to run to get to pass out to her sons' class for his birthday and waves a cheerful smile as she passes out the door.

I walk to the teacher's lounge and happened upon a Christmas lunch prepared for all of us at the school and felt grateful for the lasagna and warm bread; comfort on a plate.  It was fun to sit across from teachers' I don't often have a chance to listen to and hear their stories.  I stopped to visit the accountant,  self described anti social who I hit it off with royal right from the start, and we talked how to pay for school when I didn't know if I could.  It's funny how the least likely person can be your cheerleader for the day.

I checked the clock.  It was time for the boy's class to head to their room and stop by the store for candy.  I wanted to be there.  I'd sat hopeful each day for two weeks since the day I wounded him with my words,  and watched him pass me by without a glance.  I wanted to give him a chance to change his mind.  Today, he walked through the door.  I took in air surprised but didn't move.  I was afraid I'd scare him away.  He pawed through the candy bowl with his classmates, staring down fixed and avoiding my gaze.  He chose a piece and walked back out without a word.  After class, he showed up again.  This time I took the end of my pen and touched his arm just slightly.  "I know you're here.  And I'm glad.  I know it's not what you feel like doing.  I recognize the choice."  I hoped my pen had written that on his heart.

I remembered his father's words.  "Be patient, Tamara."  This was a messy business.   I was dying for forgiveness.  I was glad that my Father had already died for mine.