Tag Archives: Forgiveness

On forgiveness

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Something has been bothering me.  I had acquired this follower on Instagram which is linked to my blog.  I only have a handful of followers so when I get a new set of eyes, it’s like Christmas morning.  It’s a gift and I feel pretty excited about it.

I look at each follower’s photographs one by one.  Carefully.  If they have a blog or webpage, I will check that out too.  I believe in making connections with people.  Or at least trying.  I believe that we were put here to love one another.   Hard-wired for connectedness.

This particular follower was a Catholic deacon who was about to be ordained as a priest in a few weeks.   He liked several of my photos.   Then, without warning he unfollowed me.   I had almost forgotten that my Instagram account is linked to this blog.  I wondered why.  My intuition told me it had to do with my blog which link is displayed at the top of the Instagram page.

At any given time I write in my blog about an array of topics that are pertinent to me.    My recovery, something I find funny, poignant, or just something I want to share.  Things can run the gammit and some can be off-color.  Everything from the childhood sexual abuse I endured,  to BDSM which I found myself led into as an adult; groomed for by the complex childhood trauma itself.

At the time the deacon stopped following my Instagram account, my blog post at that time was about a sexual strap-on fantasy.  I realized in that moment, he probably judged me as a sinner and sexually immoral.

So I wrote him this message,

”Good evening Deacon, I see that you have stopped following me on Instagram. I’m assuming it’s because you visited my blog on WordPress, read one post and judged me. You will be entering the priesthood soon. May I suggest, not moving so quick to judgment, that is for God. Last I checked you are but a man. You would do well though to live by compassion, mercy, and kindness. Teach Christ’s love by example, yes? God bless you.” 

I felt really hurt because I felt judged and assumed he sort of shamed me Scarlet letter style.  I expected better from a potential man of the cloth.  Why couldn’t he he see all the suffering I had been through? Where was his compassion? As is sometines the case, I didn’t “sit” with my emotions and fired off the text to him.

A few weeks after I sent my text I feel ashamed.  Why was I so reactive? Why didn’t I just let it go? Why did I have to let him know that he was being judgmental? Will my words even even matter to him? I’ve been holding onto this wound, this resentment towards him.   I should have prayed for him and then let it go, but I didn’t.

Someone once told me that the one thing that separates man from the animals is the ability to pray.  That deeply resonated with me.

“To err is human to forgive, divine.”-Alexander Pope

Perhaps it is “I” who needs to start on working on forgiveness.   Focus less about calling him out on his shit and trying being “right.”

 

 

 

 


Compass Rose

It’s still the same I suppose. Every spring as Easter approaches. I drive past the various Churches, with their steeples acting like beacons, sending their Celestial signal up towards the heavens. I pass there aching to go inside.

The ache rises in my chest as I pass, and then my heart sinks as I sit glued in my seat. My blood runs cold as I nervously think that ‘maybe I am unforgivable’.  How dirty I feel. Less than. Not quite good enough to stand next to any of the people donning their Sunday best.

I ache for closeness with Him like I once had. The only One who ever deserved my whole heart, who ever deserved my obedience and love.   He was the only One who would never betray me.

I can’t remember when I had stopped talking to Him.   Some call it praying.  But it was more than that to me.  It wasn’t rattling off a bunch of rote prayers, though that was how I had begun.  We were close back then.  It was like a friend that was sitting at the foot of my bed, just as real as you are reading this now.  I’d talk about everything.  Then listen.   Oh yes, He would answer.   He spoke through my intuition, I believe.  Sometimes I would ask for a sign.  Sometimes He would give me one:  a gentle cool breeze on a hot night or a small butterfly dancing at my window just as I would ask.

I had stopped going to church.  No one particular reason really and not in anger either.  Then a few years later I had stopped praying.   Other things had seemed to take precedence.  It was like one day He was just gone.  You see, it wasn’t an event, rather it was more of a process. Like most good things in life that slip away.

When I tried praying again?  it felt empty and perfunctory like I was running through mathematical computations.  Something was severed.   And I knew it hadn’t been severed by Him.   That pain of knowing what I lost has been unbearable.  The emptiness, nothing thus far can fill.

A thousand miles I have strayed off that chosen path on which I should have tread, maybe more.  It is easy to get lost out there in the darkness. Still easier to stay lost.

I don’t know how I will get back to Him.   I’m so far off course and a compass rose made only of hope in my grip.   I hope that He finds it in His heart, to forgive me.   Hope that this prodigal daughter can come home.   Hope that lost Faith will be found.

 

 


Compass Rose

It’s still the same I suppose. Every spring as Easter approaches. I drive past the various Churches, with their steeples acting like beacons, sending their Celestial signal up towards the heavens. I pass there aching to go inside.

The ache rises in my chest as I pass, and then my heart sinks as I sit glued in my seat. My blood runs cold as I nervously think that ‘maybe I am unforgivable’.  How dirty I feel. Less than. Not quite good enough to stand next to any of the people donning their Sunday best.

I ache for closeness with Him like I once had. The only One who ever deserved my whole heart, who ever deserved my obedience and love.   He was the only One who would never betray me.

I can’t remember when I had stopped talking to Him.   Some call it praying.  But it was more than that to me.  It wasn’t rattling off a bunch of rote prayers, though that was how I had begun.  We were close back then.  It was like a friend that was sitting at the foot of my bed, just as real as you are reading this now.  I’d talk about everything.  Then listen.   Oh yes, He would answer.   He spoke through my intuition, I believe.  Sometimes I would ask for a sign.  Sometimes He would give me one:  a gentle cool breeze on a hot night or a small butterfly dancing at my window just as I would ask.

I had stopped going to church.  No one particular reason really and not in anger either.  Then a few years later I had stopped praying.   Other things had seemed to take precedence.  It was like one day He was just gone.  You see, it wasn’t an event, rather it was more of a process. Like most good things in life that slip away.

When I tried praying again?  it felt empty and perfunctory like I was running through mathematical computations.  Something was severed.   And I knew it hadn’t been severed by Him.   That pain of knowing what I lost has been unbearable.  The emptiness, nothing thus far can fill.

A thousand miles I have strayed off that chosen path on which I should have tread, maybe more.  It is easy to get lost out there in the darkness. Still easier to stay lost.

I don’t know how I will get back to Him.   I’m so far off course and a compass rose made only of hope in my grip.   I hope that He finds it in His heart, to forgive me.   Hope that this prodigal daughter can come home.   Hope that lost Faith will be found.

 

 


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