The Hope in Forgiveness

A couple of years ago, as my family of six celebrated Easter Sunday—feasting over smoked ham and Yorkshire puddings at our dining room table—I made an announcement. 

“There’s something I need to tell you all.” 

My mostly grown children playfully groaned. With a couple of them in college, we weren’t all together that often anymore. They knew their mom often initiated “bonding experiences” for our family: Were we going to play a new interactive game or learn a new cooking skill together? After a few giggles and some “shushing,” everyone was quiet and ready for my big proclamation. 

“As I have contemplated Easter this year, I have felt like God has been nudging me to do something uncomfortable,” I confessed, looking down into my lap and rubbing my hands together nervously. 

I could hear shuffling in the seats. 

“I realized that, as we celebrate Easter, we are celebrating the fact that forgiveness is real. Very real. Because Jesus died, we have the privilege of asking others for forgiveness. I would therefore like to ask each one of you to please forgive me for something God has shown me has greatly hurt you.”

The room was silent. My children’s eyes were large. My husband interjected protectively, “You don’t need to do this.”

“I know that. I really want to.” I took a deep breath.

I thought asking for forgiveness was a sign of weakness.

I grew up with a dad who was very accomplished despite great hardships. He was understandably determined—and he was always right. He was defensive and blamed someone else for any of his wrong actions. It was almost as if it was too much for him to bear to be wrong. 

I learned my dad’s practice of defensiveness well. As a spouse and parent, this had become a defining pattern of mine. Never having seen repentance and forgiveness modeled, these were largely foreign practices to me. In their absence, my relationships with my husband and children suffered. I felt empty and lonely.

I wrongly believed that if you had to admit you had done something wrong, that meant there was something wrong with you. You were bad if you did not look blameless to the outside world. The truth my dad didn’t know, and I only discovered when I met Jesus in college, is that we have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.[1]

I learned there is no shame in confessing your sin.

Sitting at our dining table, I turned to my son at my left. With tears forming in my eyes and a lump in my throat that felt more like a quivering mountain, I uttered: “Please forgive me for trying to make you someone that you’re not.” 

I was always pushing him to cut his hair neatly and dress in polo shirts and khaki pants. I wanted him to present as neat and tidy and have a personality that matched. His long hair, plaid shirts, and now-tattooed limbs weren’t the image I had wanted for him. 

“In God’s graciousness, he’s shown me that my expectations must have made you feel like you had disappointed me—like you weren’t good enough.” He gazed at me earnestly. “The truth is that you are fiercely honest in the way you live your life. You don’t want to give any room to what anyone else thinks you should be when that isn’t who God created you to be. I’m really sorry for the impact of my actions.”

I proceeded to ask my three daughters for forgiveness: For not letting them feel the full range of their emotions because I couldn’t yet handle the full range of mine. For shaming them when they were sad or mad because I couldn’t deal with them expressing emotions I couldn’t fix. I admitted that I had not been present for one of my daughters largely because she was so independent and competent that I didn’t think she needed me—but actually, I think it’s because I didn’t have any more energy to give with how depleted I felt so much of the time. 

By this point, as I reached my husband, my face was streaked with tears, my voice was hoarse, and my words were shaky. “Please forgive me for largely not supporting you as the spiritual leader in our home.” 

I had just undertaken one of the hardest tasks of my life. I felt raw and vulnerable. But I had never felt more alive and free. That afternoon, I believe I tasted what I can only imagine heaven must be like. While the reactions of my husband and children varied, they all graciously forgave me.

I realized my greatest strength was found in humility.

As I’ve increasingly worked through my story over the last decade, I’ve begun to realize the true scandal of the gospel: that through no action of my own (especially not Pharisaical, self-righteous, defensive actions) can I earn or gain true acceptance and peace. The thief on the cross understood this, even if only in his dying minutes.[2] God in his mercy offers forgiveness to sinners; therefore, our greatest gain is to humbly accept this free gift of salvation. 

That Easter, I made a decision to obey God’s leading, humble myself, and model repentance to my family. I had nothing to be ashamed of in doing so, as Horatio Spafford reminds us in the well-loved hymn “It is Well with My Soul”:      

My sin—oh, the bliss of this glorious thought—
My sin, not in part, but the whole,
Is nailed to His Cross, and I bear it no more.

What I did wasn’t easy or comfortable, and our family relationships didn’t miraculously change overnight. However, I’ve discovered that repentance and forgiveness open the doors to further honest, vulnerable, and restorative communication. There is great hope in realizing that, even though we may have made some really big mistakes as moms, it is truly never too late to seek redemption.

When I finally took my last cold bite of Yorkshire pudding, I had a brand-new taste of the abundant life Christ so profoundly gave us all those years ago.

[1] Romans 3:23

[2] Luke 23:40-43