double exposure portrait by aneta ivanova
Rumbling with Forgiveness by Brene Brown (I had forgotten this important part of Brene's book until I was writing the previous blog post and watched her interview. I have been studying the PROCESS of forgiveness this year and I think this is one of the truest thing I have EVER read about forgiveness).
I was at church listening to Joe [the minister] talk about forgiveness. He was sharing his experience of counseling a couple who were on the brink of divorce after the woman discovered that her husband was having an affair. They were both devastated by the potential end of their marriage, but she couldn’t forgive him for betraying her, and he couldn’t seem to forgive himself, either. Joe looked up and said, “In order for forgiveness to happen, something has to die. If you make a choice to forgive, you have to face the pain. You simply have to hurt.”
I instantly buried my head in my hands. It was if someone had finally put the right sequence of numbers into a giant combination lock that I had been carrying around for years. The tumblers started turning and falling into place. Everything was clicking. That was the piece that was missing. Forgiveness is so difficult because it involves death and grief. I had been looking for patterns in people extending generosity and love, but not in people feeling grief. At that moment it struck me: Given the dark fears we feel when we experience loss, nothing is more generous and loving than the willingness to embrace grief in order to forgive. To be forgiven is to be loved.
The death or ending that forgiveness necessitates comes in many shapes and forms. We may need to bury our expectations or dreams. We may need to relinquish the power that comes with “being right” or put to rest the idea that we can do what’s in our hearts and still retain the support or approval of others. Joe explained, “Whatever it is, it all has to go. It isn’t good enough to box it up and set it aside. It has to die. It has to be grieved. That is a high price indeed. Sometimes it’s just too much.”
I spent the next couple of years revisiting the data through this new lens of forgiveness, this time including an ending and the grief associated with that ending. I recoded and reworked my research, did more interviewing, and read through the literature. I wasn't surprised to find a growing number of empirical studies showing that forgiveness positively correlates with emotional, mental, and physical well-being. A strong and clear pattern was emerging. This pattern would be confirmed when I read The Book of Forgiving: The Fourfold Path for Healing Ourselves and Our World, by Archbishop Desmond Tutu and his daughter, the Reverend Mpho Tutu.
Archbishop Tutu served as the chair of south Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Commission, and Reverend Mpho Tutu an Episcopal priest, is the executive director of the Desmond & Leah Tutu Legacy Foundation. The Book of Forgiving is one of the most important books I have ever read. I honestly did not have the words to adequately describe it to people after I finished it. It not only confirmed what I had learned about forgiveness from Joe, but also supported everything I had learned about vulnerability, shame, courage, and the power of story. This book outlines a forgiveness practice that includes telling the story, naming the hurt, granting forgiveness, and renewing or releasing the relationship. Archbishop writes:
To forgive is not just to be altruistic. It is the best form if self-interest. It is also a process that does not exclude hatred and anger. These emotions are all part of being human. You should never hate yourself for hating others who do terrible things: The depth of your love is shown by the extent of your anger.
However, when I talk of forgiveness, I mean the belief that you can come out the other side a better person. A better person than one being consumed by anger and hatred. Remaining in that state locks you in a state of victimhood, making you almost dependent on the perpetrator. If you can find it in yourself to forgive, then you are no longer chained to the perpetrator. You can move on, and you can even help the perpetrator to become a better person, too.”
So, forgiveness is not forgetting or walking away from accountability or condoning a hurtful act; it’s the process of taking back and healing our lives so we can truly live. What the Tutus found in their work on forgiveness validates not just the importance of naming our experiences and owning our stories but also how rumbling with a process can lead to clarity, wisdom and self-love. So often we want easy and quick answers to complex struggles. We question our own bravery, and in the face of fear, we back down too early. . .
I’ve never met anyone – personally or professionally – who didn’t have to rumble with forgiveness. That includes self-forgiveness too. Within families and in other close relationships, we love each other and we hurt each other. The question becomes, What has to end or die so we can experience a rebirth in our relationships?. . .
One of my most powerful experiences of forgiveness happened when I finally stopped running from the grief I felt about my family falling apart and started walking toward forgiveness. This process led to some of the toughest but most important "deaths" of my life. I had to bury my idealized version of my parents and see them instead as people with struggles and limitations, with their own difficult histories and heartbreaks. As the oldest child, I tried to protect my siblings by keeping them as far away as I could from the front lines, which mean that I saw most of it up close. And what I saw then was rage and blame. But what I now recognize is the amount of pain, hurt, fear, and shame that my parents must have been feeling beneath the rage and blame.
Back then, there was nowhere for my parents to turn and nothing they could do with the negative emotions. No one talked about that kind of stuff. There were no movies or television shows or national conversations about what was really happening within families. I can't imagine the pressure of losing everything, trying to keep a family of six afloat, while having no support or permission to be afraid or vulnerable. My parents were raised in families where talking about emotions was way down at the bottom of the list of things needed for survival. There was no space for talking about emotions. Instead, it was just grind on. . .more of the same. . .push harder. . .yell louder.
The death of the idealized version of our parents, teachers, and mentors--a stage in the hero's journey--is always scary because it means that we're now responsible for our own learning and growth. That death is also beautiful because it makes room for new relationships--more honest connections between authentic adults who are doing the best they can. Of course, these new connections require emotional and physical safety. We can't be vulnerable and open with people who are hurting us.
The birth of this new relationship with my parents also forced me to bury the idea that if you're smart or talented enough, you can shield your family from pain [AMEN! and I would add spiritual enough]. If you are struggling, your partner and children are also in the struggle. And that's okay as long as we acknowledge the hurt, provide everyone with a safe space in which to talk about it, and don't pretend that we can compartmentalize pain. Struggle happens. We give our children a gift when we teach them that falls are inevitable and allow them to participate in a loving, supportive strong process.
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