The Gift

“To err is human; to forgive, divine.” – Alexander Pope

The desire for revenge is a facet of human nature, and science leads us to the conclusion that the capacity for forgiveness, like the desire for revenge, may be yet another aspect of being human. Forgiveness - or the lack thereof - can be akin to a double-edged sword, cutting deep. If one does not forgive, it only serves to eat away at that person's cornerstone, akin to a stonecutter’s hammer and chisel, slowly chipping away at the large slab of marble. The act of forgiveness also cuts deeply into one’s marbled essence, much like a battle scar, especially under the worst of circumstances. Herein lies the story of true forgiveness, attained when it was previously thought to be lost and unattainable - a double-edge sword melded in the blazing fire. Speaking with the conviction of experience, to do so will surely set you free.

She sat stoically in front of the blazing fire, her face a mixture of emotions that ran rampant as she stared at the lockbox resting on the massive walnut desk. It was his desk, his lockbox. She barely wanted to touch them less alone be in his study but she had no choice. She had a responsibility to confront what lay within the confines of the box. He had been her husband. She was not used to making decisions or choices for herself. What secrets would this lockbox divulge?

The last several days had been surreal, but she had proven herself to be a survivor and would continue to be one despite any challenges she must face. In some odd way, with his death she now felt a peace much like independence - something all together new. It was hard to believe his passing had allowed her this progression. His death had been unexpected and quick. Despite the fact that he had been no friend or true spouse, she had never wished to impart any suffering upon him. He was, after all, the father of her children, and she had at one time loved him though it was difficult to recall such emotion.

Colleen had been married to Angus for twenty-four long years. He’d used every manipulative trick in the book to keep her beside him, including threatening to take their children far away. She hadn’t doubted him at the time, although now, she saw it for what it was: only a threat. Her children were adults now, but the hurt of the threat still hung with an impenetrable thickness in the corners of her heart. Thank God her children did not know nor would she have to explain such things to them. She couldn’t, after all, begin to explain to herself why she had stayed for so long despite a strong desire to flee.

He had not been physically abusive. Instead, he shown her off like a trophy, an ornate piece of jewelry or a prized racehorse. Still, he had berated her continuously within the confines of home or behind closed doors. No one really knew the extent of what she had endured. She had been his lackey, always doing his bidding because she had been so intimidated, and she had never expressed her own thoughts or desires. Quietly, without malice, she’d done as instructed, biding her time. “One day,” she told herself. Well, it looked as though ‘one day’ had arrived.

She grasped the brass key to unlock the box, turning it over repeatedly in slim fingers. Listening to the crackle of the fire and the peaceful strains of Chopin, she suddenly moved with determination from her seat. The box was ornate and larger than a jewelry box. Disconcerted to be looking in his lockbox, she paused momentarily and slid the box closer. Chiding herself since she no longer had anything or anyone to fear, she reached to place the key in the small lock. It slid in easily, and with a small twist of her wrist, it clicked. The box was unlocked.

In the dim light, she lifted the lid to reveal a little black notebook that completely covered what lay beneath within its confines. Curious, she lifted the notebook and set it aside to find a package wrapped in brown paper nestled neatly at the bottom. Retrieving and untying it, she gasped. Inside, she found stacks of money. Perplexed, she looked down, amazed. A quick count told her there was easily five hundred thousand in the velvet bag. How on earth had he managed to tuck so money away?

Inside the brown paper package, she found a small black velvet bag that housed more stacks of money, but these stacks were tied neatly with a blue ribbon. Inside the velvet bag, she found a brief, handwritten note: For Italy. This bag alone likely had ten thousand in it.

The soft delicate strains of Chopin continued to play, encompassing the room and dissipating the heaviness in it. She felt a newfound freedom settle in her and her breath came more steady despite the situation at hand. Indeed, the music and money seemed to fill her soul with a lightness she had not known for many years, and she felt the diminishment of a burden she had long carried. She sat for a short while, staring at crackling fire. There was nothing she could have found in the lockbox would have surprised her more than this. Or so she thought.

Eventually, she turned her attention to the little black notebook and timidly opened it. Uncertainty filled her anew. What secrets might his book disclose? On the first page she found an inscription, in his handwriting, that read: “To Colleen, with gratitude”. Reading on, she saw that beneath the first line, he had written a small paragraph. She was prepared to read whatever he had written, ever sure it was yet a final admonishment detailing her shortcomings. She steeled her self as she read:

“I have never shown you love or the appreciation you deserve. I know I am flawed and should not have married - I think I am unable to love anyone. Still, I was selfish. However, it does not mean I am unaware of what I lack nor does it mean I am not appreciative of what exists. I know you deserved better. I hope this money will help to forge a path to a new life and the dream or Italy you've always held. Be happy. You are not unworthy."

He had signed it only 'Angus'. She slowly flipped through the book open to find nearly all the pages were filled with entries, dated as far back as their marriage began twenty-four years earlier, and the most recent entry made only days before his death. Beside each entry, he had written an account of her patience, her humbleness, her loyalty, and her commitment in conjunction with some event or misunderstanding that had occurred during the marriage. But more importantly – and more surprisingly - he had also outlined a detailed account of his faults and his shortcomings alongside each of the entries detailing her attributes.

She had thought she could not be more surprised when she'd found the money, but nothing on the face of God's green earth could have amazed her more than what she’d just read and what was detailed in this book. If she hadn’t been sitting in her seat, she may have fallen to the floor in shock. Surprise and astonishment suffused her being. He had meticulously recorded nearly every single time he had faulted her, but instead of laying the fault at her feet, as he had been wont to do in life, on the pages herein he had described the events in total and undeniable truth, finding fault only in himself. He had known full well when he was wrong, as these writings clearly dictated, but he had never once been able to own it or say he was sorry. She had thought she had known him, but in truth, she realized she had known him not at all.

Peace accompanied by sadness infused her heart. She relaxed and leaned back in the leather chair, contemplating the man of their marriage. He was like two separate identities - Jekyll and Hyde. How sad that he had never been able to say, “I am sorry” or to acknowledge his own weaknesses and faults beyond these writings. Instead, he had carried that burden to his grave. She felt profound pity and immense sorrow for him. But she felt something more: undeniable, utter regret. She regretted that she had not striven to understand or help him more. Perhaps she should have even attempted to love him more when he could not love himself. In truth, and despite his words to the contrary, he had loved her to the best of his ability by releasing her from the burden of their years together and acknowledging that he blamed her for nothing when she thought he blamed her for everything. How ironic that it had taken death for him to reach such a pivotal point. There was also immense irony in the fact it had taken such an event for her to see the truth in the man she had married - the man she had once loved.

Grasping the smaller velvet bag against her chest, she leaned back and exhaled as a multitude of emotions left her. At long last, she allowed the flow of tears and wept, a release of well-stored emotions from the many years. She was like a bird, learning to fly. This was the final gift from a man whom she barely knew despite living with him for so long, and the unexpected gift helped to release the anger and resentment she had thought she would take to the grave. Still, more importantly, it helped her to forgive him. This gift he had given her in death was truly invaluable: it was the gift of forgiveness. In peace, she could now mourn the man who could have been but never truly lived.

“To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.” – Lewis B. Smedes