What exactly did you tell God when you told him I was forgiven?

When I got your letter, I ripped it open like a Band Aid from a furry patch of skin and read it aloud to the room. I read it without emotion and with authority, to blaze the new path you had forged from your silence several states away to my home in New Hampshire. And as my Someone and my friends staying with me that weekend dropped their jaws in horror at its conclusion, I did not. I simply refolded the letter, tucked it back in its envelope, laid it in a drawer and said, “Now then, that’s over– let’s begin our day.” And we did. It was a glorious fall day and the apples were ripe for picking and the pumpkins were big for carving and we spent an entire day thinking of the present moment, reveling in the choice to enjoy the people who have overlapped our timelines, because it is only ever a short while. I forgot about the letter for the following days, but my Someone did not. Every time he opened the drawer, he became agitated. And his agitation at last sent me alone to my studio to respond. Not because I wanted to respond. Not even because I needed to. But because it was a courtesy, like closing the door against the cold when you are the last one in.

The last I heard from you, God had told you not to be my friend anymore. He had told you I made you a bad mother. He told you I caused you to stumble. He told you that my mere existence and beliefs were a mockery to you and yours, and that I must be extricated from your life so that your faith may thrive. It was an incredible feat, I felt, having so much power over you and God. And I had no inclination I was exerting it.

But in the two years since, evidently you call the shots again with God. You’re pushing back. Because before you were helpless– there was nothing to be done. What God said was authority, and you must obey for your salvation on Earth and in Heaven. So it was a real relief, reading the words– “I forgive you… I have repeated these words to myself and to God.” But not because I was forgiven, because we all know that forgiveness is for the one giving it, not the one it is being forced upon. I was relieved because it seems that God has crawled out of the Room of Petty Arguments and has joined the lively discussion of Loving One Another.

But I am curious– how did he take it?

Because the God you told me about was furious. He wasn’t going to let this go. And if it was merely a matter of letting him know, could this have been resolved earlier? Perhaps I could have written down an explanation, a doctor’s excuse of sorts, that allowed you to miss class on Judgement that day?

What exactly did he say? Did he question your authority like I questioned his when you first told me I was banished? Did he grasp for his last semblance of disgusted dignity, clutch his pearls, and declare you a traitor?

Or was it easier than that? Was he as exhausted as you must be of creating small compartments for people, naming these ones right and these ones wrong; these ones are for hell and these ones for heaven? I wonder that he might have been tired of keeping order in the junk drawer of Good vs Evil in his heart’s back closet, endlessly becoming disorganized when some unwanted feeling or memory or unexpected entry shakes the house.

However you convinced him, I’m glad. I’m glad to hear you are feeling better, no longer under the tyrannical force who isolates you from your friends and demands absolute allegiance. But the part that is most exhilarating– the part where you say, “I hold nothing against you. The record is cleared…” It is here that I know you are finally vanquishing this dictator. Because what I remember is that your God gives that authority to no one but himself. You have no agency under him. So it seems for you to locate the record that God created, and then to clear it, means that you have truly slain the monster who held you back. And for this, I am proud of you. Because this means that God is no longer the mask you wear, nor the excuse that you make for the decisions you have made.

But it’s shaky then, isn’t it? Because to override God means that there wasn’t a record to clear.

So the letter, it seems, really wasn’t for me. It was for you. Because a letter for me would say something like, “Hi, how are you?” and “It’s been a while” or even “I’m sorry.” To be clear, I don’t even really need you to say you’re sorry. I know you’ve been in captivity with a relentlessly trifling and small celestial who shrouds your responsibility to yourself and others in vagaries and complication. But the incredible thing about the phrase, “I’m sorry,” is that it is a bright light shown into a dark place. While “You are forgiven” might seem like the same thing, it’s really just another way of saying “I was right and you were wrong, but at least I’m the bigger person about it.” It’s in a kinder direction than “God said I can’t be with you anymore,” but it doesn’t quite hit the mark.

I can see why you didn’t use it, though, because it might not be what you mean. “I’m sorry” is gutting, not for the person it is directed toward, but for the person saying it. It doesn’t give the same soothing affirmation like “You’re forgiven” does. It completely demolishes all semblance of self righteousness. It’s awfully humbling, and can sometimes be held back with an inexplicable rock in the throat, strangling the words as they try to leave.

It leaves you with a few questions, too. Like the question of forgiving oneself.

Sounds horrible, doesn’t it? It is. It’s the medicine you don’t want to take and the only cure. Because if you can eke it out over those chronic replays of the argument in your mind, over the visceral distrust of yourself and the person you are saying it to, over the hubris that is begging you to keep your grit, woman, a path has been cleared for a miracle. Bigger than water walking and better than raising from the dead. “I’m sorry” is a boomerang that flies through the rigid air and returns again. The stone rolls away, the loaves and fishes abound. There is room again to restore.

And here is where the forgiveness actually lives, thrives, and is forgotten.

At least that’s what I’ve heard back from god. Her aim is generally true.

And she told me to tell you, I’m sorry.