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Forgiveness: What it is, what it's not
What it's not
According to psychiatrist Edward Hallowell, author of Dare to Forgive, forgiveness is not turning the other cheek or letting the other person off scot-free. Nor is it forgetting or
putting the injury out of one’s mind.
What it is
Hallowell believes forgiveness is “renouncing the hold anger and resentment have over you.” These feelings don’t magically disappear upon saying, “I forgive you,” but they do dissipate, and, in time, no longer rule your life. |
In a quiet corner of a café in Calgary, my friend Paul and I sit together for the first time in two years. A disquieting tension separates us. Finally, Paul spits out his troubled thoughts: “If that happened to my sister, I’d kill the [guy].”
“No, you wouldn’t,” I reply. “You think you would now, but you wouldn’t.”
Only 15 months earlier, a speeding truck driven by a drunk driver ripped into the car where my older sister Shelley sat. And the destruction continued long after the screeching tires fell silent and the shattered glass settled on the pavement.
For one agonizing year following Shelley’s death, my only solace was in vengeful fantasies, bitter rage, and an obsessive longing to right a wrong. I never could have imagined that one day I would be able to forgive the man who took my sister’s life.
Yet I’ve also seen firsthand the folly of holding on to such destructive emotions: Over time, the anger took its toll on my physical health, strained my closest relationships, and nearly cost me my sanity. It wasn’t until I learned to forgive that I began to heal.
I was getting ready for bed on September 8, 1990 when I caught the first few minutes of the local TV news. A demolished car flashed on the screen; I heard something about one person being dead, another seriously injured, and the driver of the other vehicle arrested, suspected of impaired driving.
A half-hour later, the telephone roused me from sleep. My sister Denise was on the other end. Between sobs, she told me I had to come to Mom and Dad’s right away. I demanded she tell me if Mom was all right. “Yes.” Was Dad OK? “Yes!” Where was Shelley? An alarming pause. She didn’t have to say the words.
When I arrived at my parents’ home, a police officer offered the grim details: At just before 7:30 p.m., Shelley and her boyfriend were heading north through a green light at a busy intersection. A speeding truck ran the red light and plowed into the passenger side of the car, killing Shelley almost instantly.
The week after the funeral, I stood at the back of a crowded courtroom, waiting to see the man who killed my sister. They called his name then read out several charges, including impaired driving and dangerous driving causing death. A tall, thin man in his early 30s stood up. He clasped his shaking hands together and stared at the floor. The judge set a hearing date, then the man scurried out.
I saw him again two weeks later. My mother, my sister Denise, and I were in a suburban mall — our first outing since Shelley’s death. I glanced to my right: There he was, two tables away, with his wife and their little boy. As he rose and walked by us, I stood up and approached shakily.
“Excuse me.”
“Yes,” he said, slightly annoyed.
“I think you ought to know — we’re Shelley’s family.” He was stunned. I turned to look at my tearful mother and sister. When I turned again, he was gone.
Over the next four months, I lay awake each night, dreaming of revenge. I imagined running him down with
