Two
of my children were brought home tonight by the sheriff. That is no
mom’s best day. But by the time they fell out of that SUV, my
9- and 10-year-old had been missing long enough that I wasn’t
even mad.
There
are stages of “I don’t know where my kid is.” At
first you are annoyed. And then mad. Then there is a terror that
exceeds all the words I know. But I didn’t raise any fools. My
kids waited (unintentionally) until I was well past “I am going
to kill them” and fully immersed in “I will do anything.”
They can have chocolate milk and cookies for every meal. They don’t
have to do their Latin. I will take them to a Miley Cyrus concert if
they want. I’ll just blindfold them. They can have anything.
Just please, please, let them come home.
It
should be noted that while my children caused quite a stir, they had
no bad intent. They were going on a little adventure. And yes, they
forgot to ask and tell me where they were going. But what they meant
to do was something else entirely.
They
were terrified when night was setting in and they were still far from
home. They got more terrified when the deputy stopped them. By the
time they pulled up in the driveway they were practically hysterical.
As was I.
The
first thing my daughter said was, “I am so sorry. Will you
forgive me?” There was much hugging, of course. But we did
spend a minute discussing that one of the ways you can tell something
was a bad idea is that it ended in the back of a police car.
My
kids have apologized over and over. They got scared badly. I am quite
sure they mean it. I don’t have a single breath of anger in me.
I know that they did not mean this.
But
tomorrow, they will spend their weekly movie time baking cookies that
they will not eat (I know I said they could have cookies and milk at
every meal, but we say weird things under duress). They will get to
take cookies and an apology to those that worried and looked for
them.
It’s
not because they are in trouble. They aren’t. But because they
made a choice that was less that who they (and I) want them to be.
If
I say, “They have suffered enough,” they stay here. They
stay kids that made a bad choice. But if they apologize they get the
chance to be kids who know better.
They
destroyed their own trust and independence. Apologizing lets them
take responsibility. They made themselves helpless. Apologizing gives
them power. Even over themselves. It defines and reclaims the
differences between what happened and what we believe is right. It
lets what we did not be all that we are.
Several
years ago I got one of those heart-stopping calls. We have a family
friend who long since surpassed friend and became just family. She is
my son’s second mother. His horrible first year she was right
in the trenches with me whenever he needed her. She is each of my
kids’ greatest fan and defender. They refer to her as the
Bonmother.
The
call was from the hospital. She had been in an accident. We are all
of her family in this area, so they called us. My husband and I drove
to the hospital immediately. We told ourselves that if she could
remember our names and tell them to call, she couldn’t be that
badly off.
When
I walked into that ER room, I also had a terror that exceeds all the
words that I know. She was broken literally from head to toe. She was
not lucid. Her brilliant mind would not serve her up the right words.
She was so confused. The damage was too massive to list.
Even
worse, behind another curtain in that room lay another beautiful
friend, her cheerful face covered with a sheet. These two women had
been crossing a street in a crosswalk on the way to a concert. They
were struck by a driver. Our friend died on impact.
What
followed was a blur of miserable situations and heartbreaking
moments. They stabilized the Bonmother in hopes that she would
be strong enough for surgery. Despite her fear and pain she was her
adamant self. She assigned my husband and me power of attorney. I
would take the first shift. My husband would take charge of her after
the surgery. I sat in that hospital room all night.
It
is a funny thing about getting a knock on the head. It seemed to give
her a five-minute loop. Later it lengthened to 15 minutes. She would
almost doze off and then wake with a start. She would ask why she was
so sick. I explained the accident again and again and again. All
night long. All night long, and for weeks after I heard, “Why
did he run me down? He just ran me down in the road.”
And
he had. He hadn’t meant to. He was doing something else
entirely. Causing harm was the last thing on his mind as he headed
down that darkening street. But he did.
Almost
immediately it began. The investigating officer mentioned that the
driver was suffering to and we (the community) needed to forgive. I
am a big fan of forgiveness. But I kind of wanted the accident
investigated first. Visitors would remind us that they were sure the
driver had it just as bad.
Still
her questions came. “Had he called?” No. “Did he
know he hurt her?” Yes. “Why didn’t he call?”
I don’t know. And we would start all over again. “Why did
he run me down in the road?”
She
had a right to wonder. The most private woman in the world was now
dependent on strangers for the most intimate of care. It was a
nightmare for her. She would get confused and try to get up even
though she couldn’t. She would argue with me and tell people I
was mean. She could not remember the doctors’ orders. She could
not remember that we had talked about this five minutes ago. She was
so broken.
Another
friend of ours had set up a blog so that we could share what was
happening. One night after we had a really bad day I wrote on the
blog that one of the things that was really hard was that someone had
done this. Our Bonmother needed to hear him say that he cared that
she was broken. I was promptly excoriated for my unforgiving
attitude. Again I was reminded that he suffered too. He had suffered
enough.
The
cynic in me thinks it is really easy to extend forgiveness when we
are not the ones peeing through a tube. Her shattered pelvis probably
kept him on her mind. But people were so anxious to be forgiving.
They felt it was the right thing to do.
The
accident has passed now. Those are memories that we wince and laugh
at. Her legs are not strong. She is different now. She is still
brilliant. She conducted her doctoral research from the nursing home
bed. She is even more adamant. And though we would not have thought
it possible, even more precious.
But
he never did apologize. In our tiny community it would have been easy
enough to do. But neither she nor the family of our sweet friend that
was killed ever heard from him.
Despite
the scars and lingering pain the Bonmother has of course forgiven
him. Anything else would have been unthinkable to her. But they both
missed out. He missed out on being forgiven. He missed out on taking
responsibility. He missed out on becoming more than a man who ran two
women down in the street. She missed out on the chance to feel like
her pain mattered.
Like
geometry, there is no royal road to forgiveness. We have to take
responsibility. We have to acknowledge how we have hurt others. It is
not a punishment. It is a gift. It is an opportunity to set that one
awful moment down and begin again.
I am me. I live at my house with my husband and kids. Mostly because I have found that people
get really touchy if you try to live at their house. Even after you explain that their towels are
fluffier and none of the cheddar in their fridge is green.
I teach Relief Society and most of the sisters in the ward are still nice enough to come.