Nuts

My last post caused an interesting reaction. I think no one really pays any attention to me, but I may be misinformed. We all make a little noise. I make a lot of noise. But somewhere out there, someone is paying attention. Why? Oddly, the people that I most want to pay attention don't hear me at all. Bet it works that way for you, too.

When my father died, I had many people come up to me after the funeral and tell me, Your dad thought you were so beautiful, so smart, so talented so gifted...and he loved your piano playing. I smiled politely. Inside I was thinking: "Then why in the hell didn't he ever tell me?!" I mostly recall being yelled at for how I washed dishes, how I mowed around the pecan trees, how I cut the tomato slice too thick for his sandwich. I don't recall any words of praise or affirmation. I recall once, sitting in that wonderful '64 Plymouth Fury, after a summer of working at Luby's Cafeteria, when he said, "I'm proud of you. That was a hard job. You didn't quit." And once when I was 16 and he had a few drinks, and in the presence of others, he said "I love you."

That's what I remember. And I shudder when I wonder what my children remember about me. Did I say "I love you" to them a way that they could hear me? When I was angry, was I really horrible to them? Did they understand at all how much I loved them when I was so lonely and afraid and insecure? When I disappeared in the hospital for a month, what did they think?

Have I said "I love you" enough? Do I say it to much so that it loses its meaning? Did they hear "I love you" from me in other ways or do all they remember is the criticisms and chastisements? I know parents tell me that they raised their children 'exactly the same' and yet, one child comes out grateful and the other bitter. We just never really know how we are heard.

Today's gospel and Fr. Henry's little homily says a lot to me today. Peter, the 'good student,' teacher's pet, all ready with the 'right' answers...asks the question that he thinks he already has the answer to:

How many times must we forgive someone?

And Peter answers his own question: SEVEN times?

And Jesus, ah my sweet Boy, ever pushing us just a bit farther than we would like to go, tells Peter:

Seventy seven times.

Ten times the perfect number seven.

Think of how very practical that answer is for all of us! How much I wanted to love my children well! How much I wanted my own father's love! But, in both directions, all attempts fell short of what was needed.

We sin against each other the same way we sin against God. We don't try to love. We try, but we fail to give what is needed, that is, we miss the mark. And we willfully deny love to another because...well, 'you didn't love me the way I wanted you to so now I'm getting even.'

Oh heavens, what a motley crew we are!

The ONLY way this is going to work is that we forgive all our yesterdays, todays and tomorrows...all the time. We don't forgive, and we are locked out of the kingdom of heaven...simple as that. We sit in hell because we would rather sit there than let someone else get the upper hand. Our feelings have been hurt: not enough attention, too much attention, too passe, too critical, invading my space or leaving me alone too long. We can't win...either for what we need or what we give.

Forgiveness is the most perfect way to keep love around.

But that wasn't what I wanted to write about today. I wanted to write about trees. In particular pecan trees.

But for the moment, seems my title fits anyway.

Don't forgive, fine. Sit there in your indignation. How good it is to be right! To know you have been slighted and that you are a strong person and will not let the other person get away with...??? Let her come to me and maybe, if I am in the right mood, and the begging for forgiveness looks sincere...maybe I'll forgive her. She first must really know and understand what she did wrong. That's being a good teacher, right? I cannot appear weak or inconsistent. Stand my ground.

Yeah, stand your ground.

It will make you nuts. I know from experience.

Love, Cindy