“Maybe redemption has stories to tell. Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell.” Dare You to Move (Switchfoot)
I assure you
when, despite decades of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, you delusionally remain chained to the belief (conviction) that yours is the right way – the only way – that you have it all figured out;
when your best intentions and tireless efforts to micro-manage your and others lives – because, after all, you know better – leaves you (and them) mired in the very chaos, uncertainty and pain you sought to avoid;
when the unrelenting voices of perfectionism, loneliness, and depression are on the verge of convincing your battered and weary soul that there’s no way out of their death grip;
when the love of a lifetime is perilously, perhaps even understandably close to deciding that a lifetime should be measured in years – not breaths;
when the darkness becomes so impenetrable – the heart walls so high and well-armored – that even the brightest of lights and the strongest of loves can’t find their way in;
the last thing on your mind is the possibility of redemption,
let alone that it will happen when you’re standing at an ATM machine on the corner of Douglas Road and Giralda Avenue – filled with anger and fear after the latest in a series of sleepless nights – and all hope seems lost.
I suppose the same likely was true (in a myriad of different ways) for the adulterous woman groveling in the dirt before an angry mob – stones in hand – intent on ending her life; the crucified thief convinced that all that awaited his lifetime of missteps was the finality of death; the prodigal son longing to fill his belly with the husks he fed to the pigs; the paralyzed man as he was being lowered through the thatched roof of a stranger’s home by faithful friends; Peter, in the courtyard when the rooster finally stopped crowing; the ten lepers; the underprepared host of the wedding feast; David, after serially violating the Ten Commandments in the span of 72 hours; Gomer, Hosea’s adulterous wife, after returning to her roots; Ruth; the woman at the well; Rahab the prostitute; Saul of Tarsus on the Road to Damascus; to name just a few of the more notable Biblical examples – not to mention any number of more modern day characters – some of whom no doubt are our workmates, roommates, classmates, housemates, friends, and churchmates.
And yet, if our collective experiences are fairly representative that’s precisely when the invitation to redemption arrives – when we least expect and most desperately need it … like a soft breeze on a stiflingly hot summer day; the thirst quenching refreshment of a cool, clear mountain stream in the middle of an exhausting climb; the smile of an old friend when you feel alone, if not abandoned; a sunrise you weren’t at all sure you’d ever see again; the arrival of a beautiful bouquet of roses sent in spite of a hurt you carelessly inflicted; the gentle, inviting rhythm of the waves lapping the sand on the first day of a long overdue vacation; the eye of a hurricane; a hand extended in peace or forgiveness after decades of discord and separation; an impeccably timed word of encouragement, affirmation, or empathy; a safe harbor; a warm lasting embrace; whispered reassurances that love is unconditional when we were certain disillusionment, disappointment and rejection would be the order of the day – a sight, sound, or smell that reminds us of childhood (or home), when both seem hopelessly far away.
What awaits your acceptance of that invitation? I suppose that part is different for everyone, but for me it was an immediate and overwhelming sense of calm and peace in the midst of what only moments before were the depths of despair; a sense that reconciliation, which just a breath before seemed impossible, was possible; a vision of a previously indiscernible path to take in pursuing it and a clarity of purpose for the journey; a breaking through and tearing down of walls; a fundamental, no-turning-back change of heart and perspective; a profound sense of forgiveness (of self and others); freedom from a lifetime of bondage to stress and anxiety; an acute self-awareness of mistakes and missteps made over a lifetime and an almost simultaneous release of the guilt and shame they carried with them; an outpouring of gratitude and a compelling desire to share it all – even though, in the moment and for days, weeks and months to follow I could scarcely comprehend or adequately explain any of it. But, I know this with certainty: I’m eternally grateful the invitation arrived – and that I opened it!
*Image Credit: The Prodigal Son by John Macallan Swan