As I wrote last week, and as I have been writing with my own life, sometimes the voices and templates and thought patterns of childhood can be an obstacle to recognizing our own belovedness. Part of the process of overcoming those roadblocks, for me, is forgiveness of some of the people in my family history.
I want to say clearly that this is an ongoing part of my own journey, and to be honest, I’m not sure if it will ever be complete. What has helped me is accepting that those I would blame were also beloved people who did not know their own worth or value. I’ve tried to see their actions not only in the glaring light of my own hurting, but as indicators they they were grasping at power, anger, control, because they had not been shown their own unearned belovedness.
Sometimes I don’t want to look at those old pictures with empathy or compassion. I white-knuckle my own anger and defend my right to go on hurting. But sometimes God gives me the grace to remember that these people were deep into their own life stories before I arrived, and much noise was already drowning out the voice of truth, whispering, “My beloved. . . ”
And I remember that part of my citizenship in the Beloved community is an inheritance of hope. The story has not ended with pain,anger, loneliness.
…what was incurable, desperate blindness
has been bound up from all sides with loving kindness
comfort for sorrow,
rivers for dryness
come and drink you who have no money. . .
And it rained all day
With the bounty of new wine
“Gypsy Flat Road” Sandra McCracken