Devotional 3-16-12

Do the Math

“How often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” I can identify with Peter. A question equals a loophole. And a loophole is there to jump or crawl through to get away from something you don’t want to do. A question, a loophole means that the direction to be followed is not abundantly clear – subject to interpretation. And won’t we (I know I will) usually interpret in our favor?

Several years ago one of our sons, along with a little neighborhood friend, decided that they would like to express their literary and artistic genius. The medium – cans of spray paint. The canvas – the budding foundation blocks of a half million dollar house. When the doorbell rang and I opened the front door I knew in an instant that something very much not good had just found its way to my threshold. If there is one thing I have learned to recognize it’s the MOM FACE that, without words, screams > somebody is in trouble. The owner of that face was the friend’s mother. She began to tell me what our little Picassos had done. I stood there (hopefully my mouth wasn’t really hanging open) in dismay. It so happened that that son was home. I said “Let’s go.” We loaded into the car and went to survey the masterpiece. Still in a state of shock, I stood there on the high ground looking down into a future basement at all of the ‘lovely’ words and pictures. This can’t be. But it was.

The only question that came to mind at that exact moment was “What were you thinking?” Dumb question! Even if I had gotten an answer beyond upturned palms, shrugged shoulders and “I dunno”, it would not have made the marks and the actions behind the marks disappear. This was all on a Friday evening. Following a l-o-n-g evening of how wrong that was lectures – I’m sure the other household got much of the same, the parental plan was to have the two boys spend the weekend scrubbing the blocks. Bright and early Saturday morning, wire brushes, graffiti remover, buckets and low self esteem in hand, the boys began their chore. All day they scoured the walls. They broke just long enough for a delivered bag lunch and then nose to the grind stone. As evening approached the moment we had dreaded and yet hoped for, happened. The ‘future’ home owner arrived. As we all stood on the elevated guard tower perch peering down into the ‘what will become a basement’ we watched the boys work. We explained to the owner what had happened and what we were doing to make it right. He expressed his displeasure at the painting but merged right into his appreciation for us, the parents, not letting this slide and for teaching the children that what they had done had consequences. He ended our conversation with the comforting words, “These walls will never be seen again.” He said out loud what we had hoped would/could be a positive outcome. The outsides would get weather proofing and dirt filled in around them. The inside walls would be finished in what was planned for the space, paint, paneling, etc. “It’s over.” And he left. Dark was now upon us and we each took our weary anti-painters home >> but not before sharing the basics of our conversation with the owner. Our plan to extend the paint removal to Sunday was now abandoned.

Fast forward: The phone rings one evening. The voice on the other end belongs to the MOM FACE. Ut-oh I thought. She said, “He (meaning the homeowner) wants paid for the paint damage.” My reply, “But it has been over a year. Surely that house has been built by now and besides he said the walls would be covered.” [skipping the details of several phone conversations – a meeting was setup, at the new house, with both sets of parents and the homeowner] The actual elapsed time was over fourteen months and yes, he had gone back on his word. He was demanding compensation. There was no reasoning. There was no negotiation. There was no explanation of the turnaround. We acknowledged what the boys had done and reminded him that we were prepared to repair all damage, including scrubbing for the rest of that weekend but that he had said not to. The conversation that unfolded was one sided and cruel. It went like this; you will pay (amount given) by this time (date given) or I will begin filing criminal charges against >>> are you ready for this>>> your sons. Clearly they are minors and the action would have been against the adults but the intention was to smear the kids through the system if the demand was not met. If we thought that getting the idea of defacing someone else’s property was difficult to get seated, try explaining to two young boys how an adult, you know those grownups we teach them to trust, can go back on what they said. If the fight had been adult to adult then maybe a battle would have ensued. But with the target being the children, we did what any parent would do to protect their child… we fell on the grenade.

I don’t believe that God orchestrates calamity in order to test us. I do believe that we are beings with free will and when calamity strikes, we can see God in the solution and healing. The amount of money being demanded by the homeowner would have been a reasonable remedy to pressure wash or sandblast or paint the walls at the time (14 months earlier) of the damage. It was now clearly an amount pulled out of his… well, thin air. It was not supported by a labor rate or a materials list. You’ve stuck with me this long now comes the funny part. Our family’s portion was seven hundred and seventy dollars. 7-7-0.

An amount of money just a smidge over a thousand dollars was not the make or break point on a half million dollar house. A game was being played and our children were the pawns. The amount of anger and even hatred I felt was consuming. The thing is, I cannot think of that event and not also think of the actual amount > 770. How many times do I forgive? I don’t have a lot of experience with dishonor and treachery. I was raised in a loving home, had a brother who was my best childhood friend and have worked in environments free of the shenanigans and back stabbing that go on in many work places. I believe that this is the most helpless I have ever felt. 770. I stay focused on 770. Not the money but the forgiveness.

There may have been simultaneous applause and groans when Eugene Peterson published The Message. It was refreshing in its translation yet in chopped to many of the verses we had learned as children. Maybe the next translation will go one step further. “How often should I forgive?” “You know, they stripped me and beat me and crucified me and killed me, you can’t count that high. Just keep forgiving.”

Steve Matthews