Dabbling in Bitterness, Part 3
I recently attended a wedding. I didn’t really want to be there. I knew it would test my resolve to let go of a lot of bitter memories and unspoken rants.
Someone leaned toward our group and gaped at a friend. “I hear they only met because the bride was dating the groom’s roommate!” We said nothing, secretly laughing at her. That roommate was sitting next to us. We had all been roommates – I’ve had a dozen – but the bride and groom were two of the worst roommates I ever had.
“Love keeps no record of wrongs,” but I could talk for an hour about all the ways they failed to be adults, failed each other, failed us, failed the dog. When they hurt and humiliated the dude I love most in this world, I was done. I was simply not going to talk to them anymore. Unfortunately, I still lived with them.
During those last few months, I chanted silently, Don’t get married, don’t have kids. Don’t get married, don’t have kids.
Here I was at their wedding.
Thinking about the year I lived with them still gets me agitated. I don’t see their relationship lasting when neither one of them is very good at self-criticism, and their idea of an apology is listing excuses for their behavior. Initially, this only made me deeply sad for them and their family. As time wore on, however, that sadness turned to bitterness and derision. And then “it” happened, and in my mind, we’d been declared mortal enemies.
I knew in the back of my mind that I could forgive them at any time. Instead, I told myself that I “needed space” before I could do that. I told myself that the daily non-interactions were too infuriating. What I hadn’t spent much time considering was that forgiveness can be healing and freeing for the one who does the forgiving. Had I considered this selfish reason, I might have been more willing to do it. Instead, I focused on the principle of the thing: “Whoever claims to love God but hates his brother or sister is a liar” (I John 4:20), and in my heart, I didn’t want to be noble. I didn’t want to forgive. I wanted to smolder.
Time passed, and I cooled off a little, but whenever I remembered the year that I spent with those two, I would go off on a rant. It hurt me. It made me a worse person. It hurt my husband, who still loved these people. I’m a stubborn person, if you hadn’t noticed. I won’t say “couldn't” – I just wouldn’t let go of it.
Preparing to attend the wedding, driving to the wedding, sitting in the pews and waiting for the wedding (and judging the ludicrous amount of money that had been spent on it), I chanted silently, It isn’t too late. Run. Don’t do it. Don’t get married to one or both of them.
That finally ended, though, when I heard them say, “I do.” A little something went snap. I realized that God had joined them together now, and it was my job to root for them no matter what. Not to say “I told you so” when she spent all his money or he failed to be a man for his children, but to pray for them to communicate well, work together, and start thinking about things that mattered. Now that they were married, it was my job to be their cheerleader.
The capacity for bitterness is still there. I can still go off on a rant if I let myself. Maybe that’s always how forgiveness works among humans. Maybe it’s a daily decision. All I know is what I’ve experienced: Failing to forgive will make a fool out of you. It will also make a fool out of those who love you or even just associate with you. And, as always, it makes you a nastier person.
“’In your anger do not sin’: Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry, and do not give the devil a foothold” (Eph. 4:26,27). When I chose to nurse my bitterness, I let the enemy into my life. He knows how to push my buttons now. Screw that guy. I won’t give him the pleasure.
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