Hauling Out Stones Once, he said an odd thing: Forgiving begins with someone sitting near. Later, he said, It isn’t for the one who did the hurting. It’s the other one who needs it. One day, without warning, he wept. I sat close. He told an old hurt in half-sentences and single words like stones he was coming upon, new; like tree limbs, broken, which he needed both arms for hauling aside. A half-dozen times that summer we sat, he weeping, hauling out stones, gathering limbs; I near. The stones got smaller, his sentences, longer. He said, It’s the crying part I couldn’t do by myself. And later he said, I feel cleaned out. A wan smile. Still later, he said, I think I’ve done it. Made a kind of peace, he meant. He slapped his palm hard against mine. Laughed. Slapped his palm again. By the Rev. Nancy Shaffer
Posted on: Mon, 11 Nov 2013 11:57:18 +0000