When I was about ten years old, my parents
had me enrolled in Sunday classes at our local church, which I reluctantly went
to every week. In that year, I the class was taught by one of the sweetest and
wisest people I had ever crossed paths with in my adolescent life. Coincidentally,
this nun had the same last name that I did, less the preposition Da, meaning
"from (the family)," at the beginning, which was a common use of the
name. Because of this, I took an instant liking to her. She could be family. Plus,
she was the tiniest thing I ever saw. I was already a little taller than
average for my age, but at ten, the two of us met eye to eye, so she was
speaking at my level, literally. Every Sunday morning that year, I actually
looked forward to getting out of bed early to sit in front of Sister Rocha to
hear her saintly stories told like she was reading a Grimm classic fairy tale.
I sucked up every word like a sponge, always hungry for the entertainment.
However, one particular story shook me to the core and I was never the same
from that day forward. It was the story of Saint Maria Goretti.
Maria Goretti was an eleven year-old Italian martyr who was also one of the
youngest canonized saints in the Roman Catholic Church. She was killed after
suffering multiple stab wounds when refusing to submit to her nineteen-year-old
attempted rapist when her parents were out. After being stabbed fourteen times
the rapist fled and her younger sister and parents found her in a pool of her
own blood. Now, here was the part of the story that had me reeling in a stupor
for days. Before she died of her injuries, one of the last words that passed
through her lips was not, "make sure you do a Lorena Bobbitt on his ass
and have that SOB hang by his toes like a piñata and have everyone practice
their knife throwing," instead, it was forgiveness. She forgave the
nineteen-year-old farmhand that stabbed her to death, while trying to rape her,
because she wanted to have him in heaven with her. WHAT? I couldn't
believe my little ten-year-old ears. Forgive someone after THAT? Insanity!
I used to get into screaming slap fests with my brothers just for small
things they would do to me like tugging on my hair or giving me wet willies
when I wasn't looking. Forget about forgiveness!
I was hit with two realizations that day. First, that something as horrendous as
what Maria Goretti went through could actually happen to a child my age, and
second, that a human being, much less a child, is capable of that much
suffering and still be able to forgive in such a profound way. My little
pubescent head was absolutely reeling with this new information. Everything I
ever got mad about or wanted retribution for after being wronged in some
insignificant way, seemed so ridiculous and petty in comparison. I wanted to
ground myself for being such a lame human being after hearing this story. All I
could do was sit sheepishly at my tiny desk looking so dumbfounded and
bewildered at sister Rocha. After hearing this story, I believe I became a
better person. Before that day I felt like I was a spoiled, whiny little brat
who usually got whatever she wanted by being mean and sneaky. From that day
forward, whenever I got mad at someone for not giving me what I wanted out of
life or when I thought of seeking revenge for those wet willies, this story
would just as instantly pop into my little noggin and I would transform from a
seething, foam faced zombie to a gentle, zen-like monk and turn the other
cheek, most of the time. Let's be real, I'm not a saint, but I did try.
The other night, a friend and I got on the subject of forgiveness while we were
at work and she asked me if there was anyone I've ever wanted to forgive who
had wronged me in a major way. I stood there looking at her and the story of
Maria Goretti popped back to mind after so many years and I thought hard on the
only person who ever hurt me in that way. That person I had forgiven so long
ago I completely forgot there was anything to forgive in the first place. I
told my friend about this realization and sent a silent tribute to that little
saint in the sky, and sister Rocha, that sweet nun who showed me the light,
always grateful for telling me that story so long ago. Because of her, I can
walk through life unburdened by things I cannot change and knowing that I have
the ability to make change with three little words...I forgive you.
However, that all seemed to go right out the window when later that night,
after a hard days work, I ran in a frenzy to grab the next train home when just
as I had swiped my metro card through the card reader granting me access
through the turnstile, a big burly woman came barreling through the very
turnstile I had just accessed before I had a chance to walk through, nulling my
ability to enter the station. "What the F!" I spat out of my mouth,
seething with anger. If it wasn't so late at night, when the trains only ran
twenty minute to a half hour between each other, I don't think I would have
reacted the way that I did. But, not only was I going to have to wait fifteen
minutes before I was able to use my card again, but the next train was due in
five minutes and I was going to have to wait another twenty minutes for the
next one. After I gave the big burly woman a piece of my instant reaction, I
nearly cowered when she turned to look at me. To my relief, she just shrugged
her shoulders, uttered a "sorry," which was more like a "sucks
to be you," and disappeared around the corner. The second I assaulted the
woman with my angry affront, my earlier conversation came back to mind. It was
too late to forgive this woman who had robbed me of a good half hour of
precious sleep and a chance to clear my chest, I uttered an "I forgive
you" in a growl under my breath after she was gone. If I'm wrong about a
heaven and my forgiveness was pointless, I sure hope karma exists.
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