The Lost Art of Forgiveness

When I was a teenage an older cousin, whom I admired at the time, began his first year of study at the same seminary school that Martin Luther King Jr. had attended. One day he shocked me by saying he would always hate his mother for moving--when he was fourteen-years-old-from a rapidly decaying neighborhood to the suburbs. When his family made the move I would have eagerly trades places with him. My face was already scarred irreparably from the battles I'd fought growing up in the heart of North Philadelphia's roughest section.

Many years passed before I finally mustered the courage to challenge my cousin, who by then had been an ordained minister for more than twenty years. During that time his actions revealed that he intended to remain true to his word, and the imposed gulf between him and my aunt continued to baffle and disturb me. On several occasions-once at a wedding and another time at a funeral--I saw him in the same room with my aunt, ignoring her as though she were a stranger. The pain this caused her was obvious to me and other members of my family.

One day, while celebrating my daughter's second birthday and reflecting on my own childhood, I wrote a poem about a man of the cloth who secretly hated his mother. I called the poem The Lost Art of Forgiveness, which begins by saying that whether the stories in the Bible are true or false there are lessons to be learned. My cousin listened over the phone line as I read it. Then he made a few comments about how the style of my writing reminded him a certain Biblical passages. However, he refused to discuss his strained relationship with his mother, the true purpose of my call. Over a period of many more years, I tried to break through his shell but failed. In the middle of my last attempt, he cursed me and told me to never call him again unless I had something else to talk about.

My aunt, a perpetual optimist, maintained the hope that one day he would call or come visit, and ease the pain of his estrangement. Although she lived to be more than ninety years of age, sadly, that day never came. The last I heard from my cousin was a recorded messages he'd left on my sister's answering machine. According to those frequent rants, he blamed me for my aunt leaving him out of her will. Still, I choose to believe, God willing, at some point in his life he will acknowledge the errors of his hypocritical ways. Surely, if that does happen, he will be a better minister, having learned the importance of forgiveness as a blessing that all of God's children need to occasionally give as well as receive.

I do know that through the negative example he set of how a man of God lives, while I was writing The Lost Art of Forgiveness and several other poems, I experienced a reawakened spiritual awareness that thoroughly transformed the way I live my life. Now whenever I catch myself judging others or forming grudges, I remind myself of the one new commandment Jesus gave mankind. "Love one another; as I have loved you." Clearly, it seems to be the most difficult of all the commandments to obey.

The five poems below, which I stumbled upon recently in a big cardboard box of old works, were all written during the same period of time as The Lost Art of Forgiveness.My favorite of the bunch, Adam Meets Eve appears last on the list.

WORDS IN STONE

God spoke and Moses listened.
"Go tell Pharaoh to let my people go!"
"Why... why me?" Moses stuttered spastically.
"Because," the Lord said, "I think you
are the perfect spokesman to deliver my word."
"But... You know I... I have a speech impediment,"
Moses uttered with great difficulty.
The Lord shrugged his mighty shoulders,
smiled benevolently and said,
"We all have our crosses to bear, Moses.
But if you take my message to Pharaoh,
I promise when the time comes
I'll write the important stuff in stone."

AN ARK OF A LIFETIME

When Noah and his family

began building their famous ark,

their neighbors all laughed and called them fools.

Nevertheless, the animals of the kingdom,

two-by-two, all came and gratefully

lined up to book their reservations.

"This is good!" Jah smiled down and said to Himself.

"This is the stuff real stories are made of."

Soon after, the unrelenting rains came pouring down.

SWEET DELILAH

Lovely Delilah, an agent of the Philistines,
poured well-cured wine into a golden goblet
and offered the brim-filled cup to Samson.
"No, thank you," said the mighty Nazirite.
"If I drink that I'll pass out."
"Don't worry." Delilah cooed.
"After all, there's no one here
except you and I, big guy."

WALKING ON WATER

Wearing a contagious smile,
and with mind-boggling ease,
Jesus took a late night stroll across
the dark and troubled waters.
Jagged streaks of lightening
and eardrum shattering blasts of thunder
streaked across the velvet black sky.
From a nearby fishing boat,
Peter marveled at his master's progress
on the deep undulating water.
How can this be? He wondered, amazed.
"Can I do that too?" he finally asked.
"Come," Jesus beckoned. "Have no fear."
Testing his sense of bravery,
Peter stepped from the floundering boat.
Taking a few steps on the lake's surface,
he glanced down at his feet and gasped, "But..."
Before another word could breach his lips,
Peter sank like a one-hundred-and-sixty pound rock,
which had been caste into a deep sea.

ADAM MEETS EVE

Adam awoke with a pounding headache.
In a deep corner of his mind a misty dream lingered.
He stood, yawned and stretched.
"Oww!" He grimaced
from a sharp pain in his rib.

Slowly his sleepy eyes began to focus.
Across a clearing in the Garden of Eden
an apparition of some kind appeared.
From the far edge of the lush forest
she watched him with intrigue.

Uncertainly, Adam approached her.
With each step he took his heart raced faster.
The trees swayed and the songbirds sang
in perfect four-part harmony
as golden rays dappled sunlight
graced her form and magnified her uncommon beauty.

At arm's length from Eve,
Adam paused as a sweet jasmine scented breeze
whispered a brand-new name.
And despite the dry lump in his throat,
Adam asked, "Haven't I seen you somewhere before?"