First You Forgive: A Vignette From the Desert

First you forgive.  Three words and the world is balanced again on its rails…then again…

“I forgive you.  I forgive it all.”  It’s not only for what she’s done.  It’s not only for what’s in the past.  Saying the words; even truly meaning them; that’s the easy part.  Because those three words are not magic.  They don’t protect you from what’s coming.  And, sister, you’d better believe, it isn’t over.  It isn’t ever over.

Because now that you’ve forgiven, you realize part of that forgiveness is realizing you can’t change her.  Not only that, you can’t change her dreams; her wants and needs.  Now you have to accept her as she is; as she’s always been outside your own wishes and hopes. Now you realize you might not be her fantasy.  Certainly if you were, none of this would be happening.  There wouldn’t be a smoking hole where your heart used to be, and you wouldn’t be waking up every morning wondering how you managed to wander into a wilderness where there are no markers, no road signs; not even a cattle trail to follow.

And this is where the air in your lungs takes on an extra fifty pounds, and the dust gets thick in your throat.  Your canteen’s almost empty and there are no rest stops on the horizon.  And still you have to go on, you have to take one more step, because this could be it; this could be the breakthrough where your compass finds North.  God, please; you don’t even need a traffic sign or a fresh wind; just a true North reading to help you out of this desert basin.  But it doesn’t come; no mystical guide, no water hole, no magnetic realignment.  And you realize the worst joke is the one you’ve played on yourself.  You just got the punch line, and knocked yourself out.

Because you’ve driven yourself here; driven the vehicle until the radiator’s dry and the tires are bald.  You jumped into the car full of delusions and misunderstandings and wishful thinking and drove it into the ground following a mirage into a Death Valley of the heart.  The oil light was flashing, the fuel gauge was dinging and you heard the death-percussion of six pistons destroying six cylinders, but you kept going; believing it was all going to work out; and now there’s no more give in this old car. 

So here you are.  You’ve forgiven, but you haven’t changed. True forgiveness means you’re not going to keep expecting what she can’t or won’t give.  The only way out of this desert is to make peace with what she can.

Desert places are big.  Whether you walk out with her, or without her, it’s still your journey.  It’s your life to save or lose.  If she’ll come with you—oh Gods, that would be more than you could hope for.  But if she’s found her own way, you still have to live.  Somewhere, you’ll have to find the water to sustain you, the shelter to keep from being burned.  You have to believe somehow you’ll find green fields again; a river and some old cottonwood trees.  Maybe you’ll even find someone, someday, to share it. 

You got here one step, one mile at a time.  You destroyed your ride in your desperate attempt to hide from the truth.  Now you have to find your way home the same way you got here, except if you’re going to survive, you have to turn away from the mirage.  There are no guarantees you’ll make it.  Even if you do, it won’t be the same home, and you certainly won’t be the same.  But if you begin the journey well, you have a good chance.  First, you forgive.