Forgiveness

As I observe the anger in me about all the wrongs, the injustices, all the hurt that was done and WHY? WHY? WHY?

I still believe we make our own reality.

I can keep going on, making lists of hurts and wrongs done to me and my loved ones, shouting it so loud in my head and smashing my fist into the wall till my knuckles bleed because it is SO NOT FAIR.... SO WRONG ...

But doing that keeps me focussed on what is not, on the bad, on the wrong. And the focus on these wrongs in the past, things that have happened and cannot be changed, keeps me focussed on wrongs, on have-nots, on why-do-they-have-when-I-do-not, why-should-I-trust-now, why-should-I-believe-this-time, on the bad, in the Now. My brain has found a train track, and stays with it.

Forgiveness, I think, is a necessity to allow our souls to be washed clean so that we can continue to focus on the good, on what we have, on how blessed we are. To allow us to trust and believe. To think evil of someone taints our own soul.

We make our own reality. Life without trust and faith is no life. God, give me the strength to forgive. I need it.

3Blessed are the poor in spirit,
For theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
⁴Blessed are those who mourn,
For they shall be comforted.
⁵Blessed are the meek,
For they shall inherit the earth.
⁶Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
For they shall be filled.
⁷Blessed are the merciful,
For they shall obtain mercy.
⁸Blessed are the pure in heart,
For they shall see God.
⁹Blessed are the peacemakers,
For they shall be called sons of God.
¹⁰Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake,
For theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
-- Gospel of Matthew

So - a Happy New Year to All! May we see in 2008 lots of love and kindness and good.
God bless.

We've thought about phoning him. "Do you realize what you did to us? How much pain he's in? How I didn't have a birthday? How we didn't have a Xmas dinner? All the worry? All the missing hours?"

Shout piercing shards at him, that careless driver, until his eyes bleed tears. Breath icy thoughts until his hair frosts over and his brain slows down, too.

But what good would it do? He said he was sorry, so sorry. But what good does that do?

Narratives

In Flanders Fields

by John McCrae, May 1915

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Don mentioned during the sermon that this poem was found on the dead body of a soldier. Last words of a young boy who knows he might die. So moving.

Did it really happen that way? So many stories of last words of the dying.

Another sermon:

I am reminded of the words scribbled on the wall of the cellar of a bombed house in one of the war-torn cities of Germany, found by American troops when they entered, searching for snipers. A victim of the holocaust had drawn a Star of David, and, beneath it, had written these words:

I believe in the sun -- even when it does not shine
I believe in love -- even when it is not shown;
I believe in God -- even when He does not speak.

I remember reading, as a child, a Dutch poem:

Het lied der achttien doden

Een cel is maar twee meter lang
en nauw twee meter breed,
wel kleiner nog is het stuk grond,
dat ik nu nog niet weet,
maar waar ik naamloos rusten zal,
mijn makkers bovendien,
wij waren achttien in getal,
geen zal de avond zien.

Jan Campert (1902-1943)

My translation:
Poem of the 18 dead
A cell is only 2 meters long
and narrow 2 meters wide
much smaller even is the ground
of which I know not yet
but where I will rest nameless
together with my mates
we were 18 all-told
and none will see the night

about the last hours before the execution of resistance fighters during the war.

I do not know if "Flanders Fields" was found in the pocket of a young victim of war - but that is the way I will always tell the story. Because from an emotional perspective, the story is more true that way.

I've just finished reading Geza Vermes'"the Passion". By examining the various gospels, comparing them side by side, he aims to arrive at a historical truth. Correspondence in the gospel is assumed to be more likely close to the historical truth than divergence.

But isn't it possible that correspondence in stories just means that those elements make a better story? Or go back to an archetypical folk story that describes a universal truth, rather than a historical truth?