Sharps: Lessons Learned Through the Things That Hurt

"Music is the literature of the heart, it commences where speech ends." - Alphonse de Lamartine (1790-1869, French poet, historian, statesman)

Luke 23:33-35 (33) When they came to the place called The Skull, there they crucified Him and the criminals, one on the right and the other on the left.  (34) But Jesus was saying, "Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing." And they cast lots, dividing up His garments among themselves. (35) And the people stood by, looking on. And even the rulers were sneering at Him, saying, "He saved others; let Him save Himself if this is the Christ of God, His Chosen One."

Matthew 18: 21-22 (21) Then Peter came and said to him, "Lord, how often should my brother sin against me and I forgive him? Up to seven times?" (22) Jesus said to him, "I do not say to you up to seven times, but up to seventy times seven."

In music, a sharp raises the pitch of any given note by a semitone or half step. A sharp not normally noted in the key signature is referred to as an accidental.  Generally, a sharp is understood to make the composition sound brighter, and lighter in tone.  It is the accidentals in music that lend added interest to the listener.   

There are sharps in the routine of life as well.  We experience sharp pain when we stub our toe on the bed frame in the middle of the night or when chewing something causes a cracked tooth.  Sometimes the sharp pain is emotional in nature.  Relationships can be hard and often, without meaning to, we wound the ones we love the most.  When this happens, forgiveness is the remedy and when it becomes a lifestyle and we are quick to forgive, it can turn sharp pains into a brighter, lighter way of living. 

I carry with me two pictures of forgiveness; one that I witnessed first-hand and the other I read about.  I often try to imagine that second event and the circumstances that surround it, but in my humanness, I utterly fail. 

The scene that I witnessed is inextricably connected to the one I did not.  

And the situation that I did not witness made the one that I did, entirely possible.  

Sometimes life hurts.  People say and do things that cause pain to others.  Sometimes it is intentional and other times it is not.  When we find ourselves in those types of situations, there is almost always an opportunity to forgive.  Whether we are the offender or the offended, forgiveness is always the key to moving forward in any situation.  Sometimes it restores the relationship and sometimes it is simply the kindest act that you can do for yourself to regain your own peace of mind.

Forgiveness does not necessarily mean that you must restore a relationship with the offender.  Restoration of the relationship is not a requirement or even the goal of forgiveness, nor is it a sign that forgiveness has been extended to the person who wronged you.  

Extending forgiveness isn't about letting someone else off the hook for their offense either.  In fact, it has everything to do with you and almost nothing to do with the other person.  It gives the offended person peace of mind, and a clarity of conscience that allows the person to move forward without holding a grudge, entertaining thoughts of revenge, or living in a state of perpetual anger.  Still, the truth is, forgiveness isn't easy, especially when it's someone we love who did the hurting and now we are faced with the hard task of forgiving.  

The fact is forgiveness is always the right thing to do and the right thing to do is rarely the easiest thing to do.  It is, however, always worth doing the hard stuff.

We were at the hospital at the University of Michigan doing our best impression of vultures.  Not really, I suppose, but that is definitely what it seemed like.  If you have ever had the privilege of watching someone take their final breath and enter eternity, then you might be able to relate to how it felt standing around waiting for the inevitable.  I referred to it as The Vulture Syndrome.  But that sounded a little bit crass and a whole lot crazy, so I had to keep that thought mostly to myself.  Ironically, Dad would have laughed had he been able to hear me make such a ridiculous statement.  

Dad had been diagnosed with Cirrhosis of the Liver a few years before we arrived that fateful weekend at U of M.  The diagnosis was the tragic result of more than 50 years of battling against Crohn's Disease.  He also fought chronic pain due to Post-Polio Syndrome and a ride down 20 feet of scaffolding complete with resultant injuries and the long-term effects.  The meds required to treat the Crohn's helped so that he could function as best he could while living with chronic pain and illness, but over the years, those same meds became his silent killer.    

I never heard my Dad complain. 

He hid a lot.  His pain was not evident unless you were a student of people and their mannerisms.  Often, an almost imperceptible grimace would cross his face or perhaps a narrowing of his eyes accompanied by a slight wince.  More frequently in the year or so leading up to the day indelibly imprinted in my mind, he experienced muscle cramps that would last an incredibly long time and leave him with the offending muscle causing further pain for days afterward. The fact that he hid so much and had an incredibly high pain tolerance was what made the run-up to his last days seem so frighteningly quick.

He'd been in the hospital for a while and the doctors had moved him up to the highest priority for a liver transplant.  Essentially, it was a race against time.  Not to mention it was a weighty thought to know someone else had to die for Dad to get a new liver so he could live.  That knowledge was hard to reconcile.  

Had things worked differently Dad would have been the oldest liver transplant recipient at U of M at that time. Some of us had gone to the mandatory transplant classes so that we would know how Dad would need to be supported medically for at least a year after the transplant.  They covered early signs of rejection and an incredibly daunting medication schedule.  Meds would have to be taken precisely at the times prescribed with no deviations.  There was no one-hour before or one-hour after protocol for anti-rejection meds.  It was a strict and intimidating schedule with a plethora of drugs. But it was expected to give Dad at least ten more years of life so it would have been worth it by his own admission.  We had conferences with doctors who explained how things would proceed while we waited for a new liver.  It was a lot to take in but even under the circumstances, I found it quite interesting.   

Then one day, everything changed so fast that it left all of us reeling.  A meeting with doctors revealed nothing else could be done for him. Some numbers were high, others low, enzymes were doing something they weren't supposed to do, blood counts were off, doctors admitted "We don't really know what's going on", possibly underlying liver pathology they were not aware of in addition to the Cirrhosis, the list went on and on.  To me, it sounded like a whole lot of excuses and pure speculation.  They were doctors.  Weren't they supposed to be keeping up with this stuff?  What were all the tests for if not for giving the correct information to us so we could try to make the most informed decisions?  

I had the odd sensation of listening to these doctors as if they were talking underwater.  It became an annoying buzz.  While I tuned out what I knew they were about to disclose, I counted the ceiling tile and did my best to pretend I couldn't hear what they were saying.  As if I were five years old, I actually thought, "Lalala, I can't hear you." while I imagined myself with my fingers in my ears.  Then, I had to bite my cheek, so I didn't burst out in a round of inappropriately timed laughter.  I studiously avoided eye contact with everyone else in the room and idly noted that a TV was showing the Oklahoma game.  I've never been more interested in Oklahoma football than I was that day when I was trying desperately not to hear what the doctors were saying while at the same time trying not to burst out laughing inappropriately.  

In times of stress, this is often what it's like to live inside my head.  

How could Dad have possibly gone from the top of the transplant list to "if you take him home, there is a distinct possibility that he will not survive the trip"?  It is still beyond my ability to comprehend even while the desperation of the moment has been tempered over time.

Things moved even more quickly after that meeting with the doctors.  Disconnecting machines.  Changing rooms.  Morphine. Comfort care; a term that greatly annoyed me.  Yellow tears, a result of his liver's inability to filter out the impurities in his body, still haunt me. He was awake at that moment, but couldn't talk to us anymore and the sight of that last, bright yellow tear that snaked its way down his right cheek will remain with me until the day I die.

We tried to figure out who we needed to call.  How do we get the grandkids up to the hospital to see him before he dies when we want them to see him one last time, but we don't want to leave the hospital?  What about Mom?  How long does he have?  What happens now?  The questions were endless.

For me, this was way too much to process amidst all of these people.  I had to find a place to be alone and get my head straight.  I had been in the chapel several times during this last hospital stay when Dad was sleeping, but on this day, the walls were closing in on me.  It was nice outside.  Psalm 19:1 says the heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament shows His handiwork.  It was early Fall; the weather was nice, and the leaves were starting to change.  Someone at U of M thoughtfully included a courtyard in the plans when they designed the hospital and that's where I wandered, alone with my Bible.  I needed to read God's promises to never leave, his offer of peace in the middle of the storm, his steadfast love for us, and His grand promise that this life isn't all there is.  I needed to write.  I desperately needed to pray.  But I didn't know what to say and on that day and for many days afterward, I was infinitely grateful for the Holy Spirit who intercedes for us with groanings that are too deep for words.

What does any of this have to do with forgiveness?

Only everything.

Mom and Dad had been divorced for over twenty-five years at the time that Dad died.  After that terrible meeting with the doctors, we called Mom and told her what was happening and she said she wanted to come and see Dad but did not think it was a good idea for her to drive herself.  She wondered if someone could come and get her, but she didn't want us to leave in case something happened to Dad while we were gone.  I told her I would come and get her.  I had already said everything I needed and wanted to say to him a few days prior to this and if he died while I was gone, I felt like I would be all right.  Mom was wrung out.  Dad's impending death impacted her life in ways that I could not then and cannot now, even begin to comprehend.  While we tried to figure out what to do, Keith said he would be happy to go get Mom so that we didn't have to leave the hospital.

Eventually after their divorce, Mom and Dad got along quite well.  We were all adults by the time they separated, so they did not need to communicate about visitation or other things that divorced people find themselves having to discuss when there are kids involved. Early on, they didn't have much to talk about and there was a decent amount of animosity towards each other.  Understandably, hurt feelings were rampant between them and really amongst all five of us.  There were frequent misunderstandings coupled with very little grace from any of us.  Everyone needed time to figure out how this new and horrifically awkward family dynamic was going to function.  Over time tensions eased, communication became less awkward, and eventually, they were able to occasionally communicate with each other.  This led to sporadic casual conversations and in time, culminated in us spending holidays together.

Weird?  Maybe.  But by the time the grandkids started arriving on the scene, it surely simplified the Great Holiday Division of Time.  It was so much easier to be able to go to one place and have everyone there than having to spend an abbreviated period of time at two or more places on the same day.  I appreciated that.

I worked with Dad, so I saw him regularly and he often inquired as to how Mom was, and Mom often asked about his well-being.  If a holiday was on the horizon, he would ask if I knew if Mom had a concert and if she didn't, he would invite her to his house for a cook-out or dinner.  Sometimes, we all just got together for dinner and there wasn't a holiday involved at all.  It was nice to see them get along with each other and for me, it went a long way towards reconciling their divorce.  

In conversations that I had with him during the last month or so that he was alive, I had the distinct impression that he regretted some of the decisions that he made in his life.  But I will never forget telling him that if things had been different for them, I may not have learned how to forgive the hard stuff in my own life.  Because in watching Mom and Dad learn to forgive each other, I also learned valuable lessons on forgiveness myself.  He got really quiet and still, the small hospital room walls started closing in on us and suddenly we were both compelled to count the tiles on the ceiling and make a joke or two until the mist cleared out of our eyes.    

The sharp stuff that hurts the heart is hard to talk about.  We like to temper it with humor.  Hospitalization was not an exception to this unwritten family rule.

But now, the end was near.  The specter of death seemed to hover just out of sight, a vague, nebulous, and unseen dark cloud just upon the horizon.  It was never out of mind as it stealthily crept through the hallways.  But even while I knew it was there, I also knew that death would not have its temporary victory over my Dad's earthly body, until the days that God had numbered for him had expired.  

There was an odd comfort in knowing this.  

Mom had made it to the hospital to visit Dad one last time.  We were all in the room together, Mom, Val, Mel, Keith, and Mike.  Dad was in a coma by then, his last yellow tear shed hours before and we had entered some kind of macabre waiting game, the Vulture Syndrome.  We were all just talking and laughing as usual.  Doctors say the last sense to go is hearing.  I don't know if this is true or not, but if it is, then I know Dad would have been happy and laughing right along with us.  The clock kept moving forward, minute by painstaking minute even while we wished we could stop time.  Everyone had trickled out of the room for one reason or another and it was just Mom and I left alone with Dad.  She sat quietly staring at something down through the years that I was not privy to see.  Pensive.  No doubt reliving their relationship.  I felt like an intruder and made a move to leave, but she told me I should stay.  So, I did.

And that's when I witnessed the culmination of one of the most riveting acts of forgiveness, I've ever been part of in my life.  

Mom got up from the chair she had been sitting in and made her way to the bed.  She placed her hand on his left shoulder and stood looking at Dad for a bit as tears slid down her cheeks.  She was quiet, but the silence in the room was deafening.  A cacophony of memories littered the silence.  What do you say to someone you shared close to thirty years with who is now dying?  I wouldn't know, but Mom knew exactly what to say.  She always knew what to say in hard situations.  

I watched Mom compose herself.  She straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and with resolve etched in her face, she reached out to touch Dad's shoulder.  She said, "Hi, Bob, it's Arlene.  I don't know if you can hear me, but I hope you can.  I'm sorry you got so sick.  You've had so much pain and sickness in your life.  I just wanted to say that we had a good life together and I want you to know that I forgave you years ago. I love you and I'll see you in Heaven."  She patted his shoulder a few more times and then leaned over the bed rail to kiss his cheek. Every molecule of air left that room which didn't seem to matter much since I don't think I was breathing at this point anyway.  Surely, the Earth stopped its slow rotation and time stopped.  

This snapshot in time is seared into my mind: Dad in a coma, a day away from death, Mom standing by his bedside telling him she had forgiven him and reminding him of a good life they once shared. 

The intensity of that moment cloaked in the utter simplicity of it was heart-wrenching.  The sad, serene look on Mom's face, underscored the truth of her statements and belied years of hurt that had been resolved with her decision to choose forgiveness.  To me, she had never seemed more beautiful.

I was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, eyes burning with tears that threatened to spill over at any moment.  There was no counting ceiling tile this time.  There wouldn't have been enough to distract me anyway.  I fervently prayed no one would walk into the room because I believed there was something extremely important going on that I didn't fully understand but I didn't want it to be interrupted.  I didn't move.  

There was reverence in that moment.  Amid heartbreaking circumstances, God the Holy Spirit was tangibly present in that hospital room and I knew that even though everything was about to change for all of us, He was going to be with us every step of the way.  Immanuel, God with us, wasn't about to leave us in the middle of this storm.

Eventually, Mom left the room, so I was alone with Dad for a few minutes.  Trying to process what I had just seen, I was thinking of Jesus when he was being nailed to the cross and how He asked God the Father to forgive the people because they didn't know what they were doing.  It seems incomprehensible that someone amid such agonizing pain could ask such a thing.  I cannot comprehend the deep love it would require to utter such words.  Yet, Jesus spoke to them.  He loves us all with a love so limitless that when he was beaten beyond recognition, He asked His heavenly Father to forgive.  

Us. 

Sinners.  All of us. 

And because of His extreme example of forgiveness, I had just witnessed my Mom speak words of forgiveness to my Dad.  Forgiveness was something that she had resolved to do long ago, but today she spoke aloud to Dad.  They were words that he already knew in his heart that had been backed up by the actions Mom had exhibited towards him over the years.  

It was incredibly unbelievable.  

Earlier, when Jesus was teaching His disciples, they asked how often they needed to forgive someone of an offense.  They were stunned when the answer Jesus gave was 70x7.  This is not to say that at the 491st offense, we are somehow off the hook and no longer must forgive.  It is 70x7, for the same offense, by the same person, every single day, along with every other offense that same person commits against you, every single day.  This stunning statement by Jesus points out the idea that forgiveness should be a lifestyle.

Because when we model forgiveness, it shows others Christ's love and draws others to Him.  

Mom exercised this forgiveness and lived it out as an example to me and to the rest of our family.  She may not always have gotten it exactly right, but she did her best to model active forgiveness and the resultant lifestyle of it every day of her life. 

The picture that I have of forgiveness is multifaceted.  It is the face of my beloved Mother standing at my Dad's hospital bed long after their divorce and hearing her tell him that she had forgiven him years ago.

And their journey toward forgiveness was made possible by Jesus who extends mercy, grace, and forgiveness to all who call on His name. 

Grace Greater Than Our Sin 

Marvelous grace of our loving Lord,
grace that exceeds our sin and our guilt!
Yonder on Calvary’s mount outpoured,
there where the blood of the Lamb was spilled.

Sin and despair, like the sea waves cold,
threaten the soul with infinite loss;
grace that is greater, yes, grace untold,
points to the refuge, the mighty cross.

Dark is the stain that we cannot hide;
what can we do to wash it away?
Look! There is flowing a crimson tide,
brighter than snow you may be today.

Marvelous, infinite, matchless grace,
freely bestowed, on all who believe!
You that are longing to see His face,
will you this moment, His grace receive?

Refrain:
Grace, grace, God’s grace
grace that will pardon and cleanse within;
grace, grace, God’s grace,
grace that is greater than all our sin!

- Julia H. Johnston 1911