Page 139 of Intermission

Is it true? Do I hate my own mother?

Hate is such a short, pointed little word, but its tip drips puddles—no,oceans—of death.

I have hidden your word in my heart that I might not sin against you.

It’s one of the verses I memorized right after Noah left.

Another verse scrolls through my head. And another. Passages I’d hidden first in my head, as Noah had explained, and later in my heartas well.

Hate and murder are equated in some of those verses.

Do I wish my mother dead?

Of course not.

I have hidden your word in my heart that I might not sin against you.

The verse from Psalm 119 plays over and over in my mind, the final few words seeming to hold extra emphasis.That I might not sin against you. That I might not sin against you.

Silently, I argue with the voice in my heart.I tried, Lord. I tried to forgive her. It didn’t take.

“I’m not like you, Jesus,” I whisper, closing my eyes. “You can forgive and forget, but I can’t. I just don’t have it in me.” A groan tears through my lips. “I can’t do it. It’s just too big. I can’t forgive her. I don’t evenwantto forgive her!”

And there it is, at last.

The truth.

“I’m sotiredof this.” I don’t wipe away the tears that spill down my cheeks and into the terrycloth robe covering my knees. “It’s so... heavy. It’s drowning me. Please, help me. I want to be done with this. Please, make mewantto forgive her.”

My yoke is easy. My burden is light.

Another verse, recalled from its hidden place within my heart. And it’s as sonorous in my spirit as the thunder that rattles the high-set basement windows.

“I don’t want to hate her anymore. Teach me how to love her like you love her,” I pray. The thickness in my throat painfully pulls at each whisper, but I have to get the words out. “Help me forgive her like you forgave—forgive—me.”

My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.

A tingling rush crosses my shoulders. I don’t open my eyes, but in my own request, I finally see the thing I’ve been willfully blind to.

Asking for help implies I’m doing most of the work and only require assistance. And here, now... with her...

I just don’t have it in me to forgive her. At all.

Warmth alights, feather-light on my skin.

“I have hidden your word in my heart,” I whisper. “And you live there, alive inside it. I can’t do this on my own. If it’s ever going to be real, it has to be all you, Jesus. Not me. All you. Plantyourmercy in my heart toward my mother. Let it flow in and through me.”

I’m out of words, but full of truth.

I cannot forgive my mother. Not alone. But...

I am not alone.

I am held.

I rest my head on my knees and let peace surpass understanding.

“Faith?”