Time Heals All Wounds

Forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors.

~ Matthew 6:12 NIV

I was sitting amidst chaos in the pew: trying to prevent my youngest from dumping his baggie of tiny little crackers while wrestling with my five-year-old. I had subdued him so that he was lying down with his head in my lap. He’d kicked off his cowboy boots, which landed with a thud and some rustling atop everything that had fallen by the wayside during our struggle – the bulletin, my offertory envelope, the pew bible, and the contents of my church bag. I’d snatched my wallet and a pack of gum from my son’s busy hands – I didn’t want my coins tinkling to the floor or anyone playing cat’s cradle with chewed gum. It was a typical Sunday.

I was just about to breathe a sigh of relief that at least my oldest was quiet, when he said, “Mommy look!” and with a proud expression, pointed to the top of the pew in front of us where he had carved his name with the cross necklace he was wearing. It was made of three tiny nails, whose ends were a little sharp. My concern about letting him wear it was that it might poke him. I hadn’t even considered he might scratch something else with it.

I covered my mouth in a big “uh oh” pantomime, so he wouldn’t see my smile. I was amused because that is definitely something I could have done as a kid. I used to doodle on everything, including, much to my mom’s dismay, the wall next to the phone. And I’d had to wash all the desks in a given classroom in high school on more than one occasion to atone for the artwork I’d left behind.

I composed myself and whispered to my son, “Oh, no! Oh, honey – we can’t do that!”

He looked at me with wide eyes. He was starting to flush.

“You’ve damaged the furniture, and everyone will know you did it because it’s your name.”

Panic-stricken, he leaned towards the pew and began to scratch over his name with the cross.

“Don’t, sweetie, that will only make it worse,” I said, and I casually put one hand over the backrest, covering up the graffiti, and the other hand on his knee as I looked into his eyes. “We’ll let Pastor Debbie know what happened after the service.” I felt bad for him.

When the service was over, we waited in line for our turn to speak with our pastor. I squirmed in empathy with my son as he mumbled to her about what he did and how sorry he was.

“I forgive you,” she said, and I could tell that she, too, was trying not to smile. In an instant, we were talking about something else, and my son scampered off in an effort not to be the very last in the refreshment line.

How quickly he was able to let that go – to forgive himself – and move on, once he was forgiven. Wouldn’t it be great if all transgressions were so easy to get over – for both the forgiver and forgivee?

Like the scripture says, “Forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors.” We say this every week in church. We must be willing to forgive if we expect forgiveness. And we all need forgiveness, because while we strive to be perfectly Christ-like, we’re still perfectly human. To quote Confucius, “Those who cannot forgive others break the bridge over which they themselves must pass.”

We sit in the same pew every week, and I have noticed that the scratches have begun to fade. (I sometimes wonder how many other children have carved their names in the pews over the years.) Time heals all wounds. A good dose of forgiveness is the balm that speeds the process.