The ricochet of blame and the circularity of grace

Long love knows these to be true.

I’d messed up. I’d written a letter to my son in prison that was too detailed and too emotional about the challenges we’d faced as father and son. The prison screened letters like this and mine was way over the line.

We were at the courthouse, sitting outside the room where the preliminary hearing was being conducted, having just been told we wouldn’t be allowed in because of the letter I’d written. My wife could have so easily looked at me and said, You asshole. Why’d you have to write that? Why’d you have to get so graphic? Couldn’t you just do what normal dads do and tell him you love him and to have a nice day?

And she would have been right. She had every right to say it.

But she didn’t. She didn’t even look over at me as we sat on that bench, both of us staring vacantly into the wide, empty hallway. I was waiting to see if any words would come. I was praying they wouldn’t. I think I would have broken down right there if they had.

And her not-looking wasn’t her icing me. It was the stillness of a woman who had been humbled by life and parenting. She knew an extended index finger would only mean that one would point her way one day.

So she kept her hand relaxed; it stayed in her lap. She knew that blame was only a ricochet, and that grace was a circle.

What I needed in that moment was grace. And grace I got.

I received it that day outside the courtroom; and I’d give it some day in the future.

It’s funny, the contingency that forgiveness is. Jesus said you only get it if you give it. It’s that simple—this for that.

Looking down your nose is easy. It takes no discernment, no nuance, and no humility.

Criticizing takes no mental energy. It takes no creativity and little intellect.

But extending grace liberally—now that’s the stuff of long love.