I could start with this past weekend when I got the phone call about my Aunt Lindsey's sudden death. But that doesn't do this justice. It goes further back than that.
Maybe December 2005? That's when my Aunt Jane made the unfortunate choice to forego calling my mother to inform her about her dad's (my grandfather's) funeral. My mom found out about it after the fact from Lindsey. Big ouch. They haven't spoken since.
Or what about when my Grandma died? I was in elementary school and didn't really understand the dynamics of funerals and the seemingly inevitable family dysfunction that accompanies them. All I knew was that my mom and Jane were furious that Lindsey had taken some prized keepsakes from my Grandma's home without asking them about it first. Years passed before Jane and Lindsey could be in the same room together.
Are you seeing a pattern emerge here?
So when that call -- ugh, I hate that call -- came Saturday afternoon, I was filled with sadness and dread. Here we go again.
It had been 5 1/2 years since my mother and I had spoken to my Aunt Jane. Weird, I know. Childish, maybe a little. Sometimes it's just hard to let go of an egregious act like that. I wasn't as personally tormented by it as my mom. More so for me, I was pissed because someone had so deeply wounded her.
Needless to say, I boarded the plane to North Carolina with a lot more baggage than my cute Bath and Body Works carry-on. I honestly felt like I was walking into a hornet's nest. It was the first time in my life I felt like I couldn't face something alone. I begged Michael to come with me and being the sweet and sensitive guy that he is, he did.
The whole trip down I just kept thinking I wanted this time to be different. Could it be? Could I dare hope for anything more? What could break this cycle? We're talking decades-old patterns of anger and hurt and unforgiveness and bitterness.
Michael and I along with my parents arrived late Sunday evening to our hotel in Wallace, North Carolina. Ever heard of it? Me neither. We weren't needed at the house until Monday afternoon. Ugh. The anticipation was driving me mad. I couldn't eat. I couldn't not think about what the day would bring.
The more I thought and thought and talked and talked and prayed and prayed about it, the more I felt clear about one thing. I wanted to shock my aunt. (Well, at first I didn't. But then Michael convinced me otherwise.) I knew she would be expecting the worst from us. After all, didn't we have every right to loathe her? Who does what she did? Yet despite all that, I felt this strong desire to overwhelm her with love.
Say what?!
Let's be clear here. This thought couldn't have been my thought. I think I'm a pretty loving person. It's just that I have this little bitty issue with justice. Oh, how I love it when people get what's coming to them. It feels so good and right. This "overwhelming with love" thing didn't really jive with my justice loving. Love her when she deserves anything but my love. Ew.
I had all these scenarios running in my head that I'd walk in and just pretend that I didn't notice her. I'd make her come to me. She'd have to feel and confront and bathe in the awkwardness. OK. I retract the "I'm a pretty loving person" description. I'm gross!
Going against everything that felt natural and safe, I committed to God and to myself that I would greet her extravagantly, that I would let go of all the "righteous" anger and annoyance I'd been holding onto. Once I decided this was the plan of action, the feelings followed. I suddenly, immediately wanted to shower her with love and kindness. I wanted to see her. I wanted her to know things could be different, that there's another, better way to live. Isn't that strange? I usually wait for feelings to come first before I act. Unfortunately it seems like that rarely happens with forgiveness.
Moment of truth -- we walked into the large plantation home. She's not in the kitchen. Phew. It gave me a minute to get my bearings and to have a cry with my uncle. She's not in the dining room or the den. Hmmm. And then, I see her. It's go time. I run over to her and wrap my arms around her and tell her how much I've missed her, how I'm so sad it's been so long, how I think about her so often. Oh my...the look on her face. Pure, utter shock. She barely hugged me back or said a word for several minutes. I don't think she knew what to do. And the most amazing part? My mom followed suit and hugged her and told her how much she loved her.
By the end of the night they were googling together and trying on each other's perfume. My mom told me today that they spent two hours talking about what happened and how they had hurt one another. Seriously, is this for real? This doesn't happen. This isn't natural. I've never seen this on an episode of Real Housewives or Jersey Shore or The Practice. You've hurt me. You've betrayed me. But I'm going to love you despite all that. Love. Love. Love.
Mr. Bell, and I guess more significantly, Jesus, are so right on. Love wins. It won this weekend. It always wins. I can't ever think of a time it hasn't and won't continue to.
There's this song I've been listening to obsessively lately and I just love the lyrics...
His love is deep, His love is wide
And it covers us
His love is fierce, His love is strong
It is furious
His love is sweet, His love is wild
And it's waking hearts to life
My heart was most certainly awakened this weekend.
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