Your Forgiveness Story

Lauren Ruth Wiener

I’ve recently completed a memoir, Riding the Cyclone, the strange story of my chaotic, violent upbringing. As I began it, when the old faces began reappearing in my mind’s eye and the old conversations replaying in my head, I was surprised to discover how many people I wanted to thank. Or apologize to. In the pause between drafts, it dawned one me: hey, we have Google and Facebook now, I could probably find some of these people. I could still say thanks. Or even: I’m sorry, please forgive me. Now that was a scary thought. Took some getting used to. A few weeks, at least.

My first searches led to blind alleys; well, it had been forty years, after all. Then came the dreadful week in which I learned of first one death, then a second. Two thank-yous to swallow, one after the other, that slowed me way down. So it was a while before I had to face my first apology. The big apology. The one I dreaded. The day came, though, when I found myself staring at the home page of my old high school roommate, the one I blew up at. I’d raged at her with such volcanic fury that she’d fled the room in tears and wouldn’t return until I was gone. Then she moved her bed downstairs, where it barely fit. Dinah’s an artist now. She lives in a city on the east coast. Her website includes a Contact Me form. I clicked the button and began typing: “Greetings from your former high school roommate. [I felt sure that further elaboration was unnecessary. I knew she hadn’t forgotten. You don’t forget something like that.] I’m writing to say how very, very sorry I am for the way I exploded at you. I’ve regretted it for years, almost since the moment it happened. I hope you can forgive me. For what it’s worth, I never did anything like that again.”  Her reply came soon. “I forgave you years ago. How are you?” We began corresponding. Finding a great deal to say to each other, we Skyped a few times. Eventually we got around to rehashing the incident that had triggered my outburst. “Wait a minute, you mean when you told the teacher I was doing drugs, you only meant pot? I didn’t even know about the LSD!” Together, we burst into laughter. Okay, I was no choir girl in high school; I was, admittedly, a mess. But to be able to laugh now at the whole thing as a colossal misunderstanding–how good that felt! I missed forty years of Dinah’s friendship, and for that, I’m truly sorry. But I have it now, and that feels wonderful.

I missed over forty years of Elly’s friendship, and it looks like I’m going to keep missing it. Elly is another person due an apology, for an older hurt. A deeper one. It didn’t take long to discover that the black girl (Negro, as we said in ’66) who was my friend in 8th grade, the girl I’d invited over to my house one Saturday and then, at the last minute, disinvited, was now a college professor. No surprise, she always was smart; it was one of the things I’d liked her for. I had her email address for months before I managed to use it. I rewrote that mail about fifty times. The message I finally sent was short and, despite the promise of the first line, didn’t explain much: “Greetings, and a very belated apology and explanation from your former friend and classmate. But the truth is so melodramatic. Over the top.The monster was there. If you’d come, you would’ve been hurt even worse. The woman my father paid to take care of me was a violent psychotic. But she wasn’t supposed to be there that afternoon. I’d been counting on her absence when I invited my friend over. Maybe I shouldn’t have invited her; it was too risky. But I was so lonely. It was so good, for once, to have a friend. And the crazy woman wasn’t supposed to be there. But she was, so my friend couldn’t come. She would’ve screamed at her, and who knows what? She was ignorant, hostile, without social inhibitions. Big and strong, too; when I told her I’d invited a black kid over, she beat the crap out of me. Then my father demanded that I call and cancel. Maybe this is what I should’ve said, right off: I know I hurt you. I’m sorry; I’m still sorry. I have an awful feeling I hurt you in an already-open wound, and for that, I am especially sorry. But it was to spare you something worse.” But how can you send someone a message like that, out of the blue, after 46 years? The dry, sane email I sent her said much less. Later, I printed a letter that said a bit more, and sent it along with a copy of the book. Which, after all, tells the whole story.

That was months ago. I’ve had no reply. I don’t expect one. So be it. Can’t help thinking, though, what a shame it is. A loss, all around. My life would’ve been more interesting with a friend like Elly, certainly. Wouldn’t her life, too, be better without this hurt? And that woman my father hired, the one shouting nasty racial epithets and pummeling me to the floor, what was her problem? I’ll never know for sure. But I do know that when the Nazis occupied her home town of Kristiansand, Norway for five years, she was a teenager. Memories of hunger tormented her. The rest we can only imagine. Think World War II is past and gone? No, it lives on in a billion places, such as the heart and mind of a college professor born eight years after it ended. All the hurt and harm we do to each other does not vanish on its own. There’s only one way to erase it. For the whole story, see

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Celine Healy

Learning to forgive oneself is the hardest part because we do not necessarily see how unforgiving we are with ourselves. When we come to this place of total acceptance, then we will come to a place of love, of self and others. It took many years to be able to do this for myself and I discuss this story in my book: Actually, It’s About Love!, sub titled: The Five Steps to Live the Life You Deserve. You can download the first two chapters as my gift to you when you visit the website:

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I was 6 1/2 years old. It was late summer and I was outside alone wearing a Tee-shirt and shorts. We lived in a suburb of Los Angeles. Our driveway separated our neighbors’ grass. The lady next door came out of her front door with a plate in her hands. She walked down the 3 steps from her porch and came directly toward me. She had cookies and wanted to know if I would like one. I looked and said yes. But instead of giving me one right away, she backed up toward her house all the way up the stairs and into her house.

I followed slowly and hesitated before going into her house. But my focus was on getting a cookie so I kept following her into the house. I was led by her down a dark hallway to a left turn where she disappeared from sight. When I stepped into the room, I saw a man lying naked on a bed and suddenly the lady was violently yanking off my shorts and underwear and T-shirt.. She brutally sexually assaulted me causing me a lot of pain and bleeding. Then she picked me up like a sack of potatoes and violently threw me on the bed causing my joints to all feel like they were coming apart. Then the man put his knees on both sides of me and hit me hard in the ribs and back. Then he laid on top of me so I couldn’t breath and hurt me trying to penetrate me. He hurt me a long time. I just closed my eyes. They insulted me and made fun of me.

Finally, the man finished and left me alone for a moment. He rolled over and got something off a table next to the bed. It was a knife. He pit the knife to my throat and said if I told anyone what happened he knew where I slept and would come into my bedroom at night and cut my throat. He repeated this several times while pressing the knife hard against my throat and then slid the knife across my throat cutting it from side to side deep enough to make it bleed, but not pour out blood. They kicked me out saying I was stupid and an idiot. I had a terrible time getting my clothes on and couldn’t open the door. And each second they were more threatening and saying things to me to scare and intimidate me.

I never said anything to anyone for over 40 years. I hate these people for what they did to me that day and for messing up my life; living in fear and being filled with rage. But I need to let this go and get on with what is left of my life and that is why I told my story here.

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TeVin Clark

I loved you with my whole heart. I tried to save you with all my strength. But it isn’t my place, that wasn’t my place. I love you still, I might kiss you deeply and never stop if you were here with your eyes closed against, your head against my heart. Rachael I love you, Rachael I love you, Rachael I truly love you, Rachael I love you, Rachael I love you, Rachael I love you, Rachael I love you, I want to see you healed. I got to close to your heart, and I questioned why you did the things you do, and that frightened you, and so you distanced yourself, and become a stranger while we were together, so you didn’t have to face up that fact. That God has more for you then smoking, and drinking, and conforming. I yelled at you, I tried to be your counselor and your boyfriend. That isn’t my place, I know that know. I wish I would have learned these lessons with someone else, and then had you as my prize. But that just means the spirit has something more for us, something we can’t even see. Something more for me, because I deserved better than how you treated me. All the times you disrespected me, all the times you hurt me. And now you’ll go off and in the future you’ll realize that what I said about you was all true, and you’ll change, but it’ll be with another man and that hurts because I wanted to be him.

I forgive you baby, i’ll call you that here one last time baby. Baby, my baby, my sweet baby, my beautiful baby girl, my boo, my love, my lover, my sweety, my girl, my lady, my fine baby, my princess, my moon and stars, you where my life, my whole world. I love you, I’m sorry I yelled today. I just hurt so much from this, but it’s time to brush off and move on. I’m amazing and cool, and you should miss having me. Because i’m a catch. And I rule. The thing is, I know you are too. You are amazing, but so broken. I wish I could have you, I’ve had you. I wish I could love you again one day, maybe we can be friends one day. What would be the point in wasting such a beautiful bond.

God’s my king now though, and I won’t change that for anyone. Not you, not anyone. I wish he was yours too. Hes so good to me. He would be sooo amazinng to you. He would love you in ways I can’t, no man could ever. I feel bad for wanting you to break down and have this blow up in your face. I love you face. I’m angry because I couldn’t control this. But I have to let go of this, because I don’t control you or anyone.

Love is a choice. You have to choose to love me Rachael, and you have the courage to do that. So I’m sorry for yelling, really. I love you. Have fun, grow. Change. I wish you salvation. I wish you God’s love. I’m selfish I know now, but at some point I won’t be. I love you baby. I love you Rachael. My sweet Rachael, so beautiful. So sweet. I love you, I’m sorry. I love you. I love you. I love you, I’m hurtinng because of you. I love you. I hope you regret it and tell me you love’d me so much and miss me. I love you. It’s unfair. I love you. But I wan’t the world for you. I want God’s love and freedom in you. You will heal so many girls someday. I hope we can hug and be friends, maybe even more maybe. Have a good one.


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Noemi’s Story

The Painful Journey Toward Forgiveness

A true story of one survivor’s forgiveness journey as told by Fr. Joe Hegglin, MSC, a Catholic priest serving in Nitra, Slovakia.

A young lady in her early thirties, but looking not older than twenty, wanted to talk to me. She was taking part in a weekend renewal course in our retreat centre in Slovakia. For at least five minutes, she said nothing, just sitting there and starring into a corner. To look at her beautiful face was like looking at sadness itself. Eventually she said: “I have been sexually abused as a child.” Thus began her journey from darkness to light. Noemi, as she wants to be called, in many ways got stuck in her personal development by what happened to her when she was about ten. After that she no longer knew how to relate to herself and to people. She had literally to come back to life and learn to live again. When I met her in a corridor at the end of that weekend, I felt compelled to say: “One day you will experience resurrection.”

From then on, Noemi came regularly to spiritual direction, “spiritual therapy” would be a more correct expression. Like others in her situation, she was at that early stage not able to enter psychotherapy: except for a handicapped woman she was nursing, I was the first person with whom she was beginning to have a normal human relationship. Being a priest who provided a safe place to talk made it easier for her to try trusting again. Building up this trust took a lot of time and patience. Only after about two years was she confident enough to seek help from a lady psychotherapist. For the first appointment, she asked me to accompany her.

I was convinced that Noemi needed more than simply regular sessions of accompaniment and decided in her case to invest what time I could and to let her have contact with me also in between, whenever and as much as she needed and wanted. Corresponding by text messages became her preferred way of communicating: it provided the distance she needed and yet allowed her to be open.

Suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder, quite a few times she had flashbacks, violent trembling of her legs and feet or her whole body shaking. Her feelings of sadness, anger and rage were sometimes extremely strong. I have been accompanying victims of CSA for five years now and had learned about this special kind of ministry through courses, reading and just by doing. But in this case I was more than once afraid to have overstepped the limits of what I could and should be doing and was near to giving up. But my supervisor, a priest-psychologist in Vienna, encouraged me to go on: I couldn’t possibly leave her out in the dark alone, for she was someone who had confidence in me and who, at that time, had nobody else to go to.

Learning to touch and letting herself be touched was a long and important part of her reconnecting with life: she avoided giving a simple handshake to anybody because it required too big an effort. When she let herself be hugged for the first time by one of the sisters from the retreat centre, it was like a victory for her, and she was proud to tell me. Longing for touch, yet at the same time dreading it led to great inner tension and strain.

Usually she sat and still continues sitting on the floor on a cushion rather than in the easy chair. Being a very creative person, she likes expressing herself by drawing. Sessions often take unforeseen turns: Once she brought a stone which symbolised her body and her sexuality. While wrapping it in tissues she experienced and expressed strong feelings. Another day she asked for a match box, wrote a few words like shame and guilt on a piece of paper, put the paper into the box as if into a coffin and asked me if we could go and burry it on top of the Calvaria hill outside the town. At times, she walked out of the office and even out of the house when it became too intense for her but always returned after 10, 20 minutes. During one session she withdrew into a corner, covered herself totally with a blanket and lay down on the floor. After a few minutes, I tried to contact her, but to no avail. Then I grabbed a Bible and began reading the story how Jesus called Lazarus out of the tomb. She began to sob, to cry and eventually screamed “no.” To come out of her grave was extremely painful: to suppress her feelings would have been much easier than feeling them and facing the truth.

In a women’s support group, Noemi made her first friendships. The group is lead by a woman, herself a victim who studies psychology, and by a professional psychologist. Very slowly Noemi’s capacity to trust and to connect with other people was growing. She began studies, at her age not easy, and found new employment in a hospital. She moved out of her family and for the first time is living on her own in a small apartment. There are still many ups and downs, set-backs, crises and at times even temptation to give everything up. Yet she expressed many times that she could no longer go back into her tomb: “it would be too small for me now.”

An important issue on her journey has to do with forgiveness. All those years I had never mentioned it, knowing that in cases like hers forgiveness is a very long process. Nearly a year ago, Noemi began to mention some kind of inner call to forgive. Once she asked me to find some passages in the Bible, especially in the psalms, about forgiveness. I printed out a little card: “The law of the LORD is perfect, reviving the soul. The statutes of the LORD are trustworthy, making wise the simple. The precepts of the LORD are right, giving joy to the heart. The commands of the LORD are radiant, light to the eyes” (Ps 19, 7-8). “Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven. Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful” (Luke 6). In June, she showed me a handwritten letter addressed to her cousin:

“Hello, I would like to tell you about something that has been tormenting me for a long time, something I have been going through. I don’t have enough courage to go to you and speak about it. So I choose this way to say it all to you.

I would like to take you back to a time when I was a child and you were almost an adult, a time that heavily marked the rest of my life. Maybe– surely–you could help me clarify some things, events that I’m not quite sure about. So, no beating about the bush. I simply want you to know this: I remember that when I was about ten years-old I spent my holiday at your family’s home. I remember watching a boy (you) and some other people jumping and swimming in the lake at the back of your garden. I really liked it and I so wanted to learn to swim too but I never did because later on I could not bear anybody touching me while teaching me to swim.

I remember the door of your bedroom being partly open. I remember me stepping into that room the one and only time in my life as a young girl, a child really. I looked around that cosy, clean (for a boy’s room surprisingly tidy) bedroom. There was a desk and a chair by the window and I noticed an album full of precious, carefully arranged stamps. Suddenly you walked through the door. I saw an almost grownup young man, to me still a boy I had never feared, since I never assumed that a cousin would take from me anything that didn’t belong to him. You entered the room quietly, sneakily, as if with mischief on your mind, closing the door very softly. You were smiling, though your smile was somewhat “sly.” You asked what I was doing. I just pointed at your album and smiled. You sat on a chair; I was standing at the desk leafing through the album. You told me to sit on your knees, saying that we could look at it together. I sat at the very edge of your knees with elbows leaning on the desk to get a better view of the album–the dark red one, full of stamps. First you started to stroke my back under my t-shirt. It tickled a little; it was nice, I wasn’t afraid. I trusted you. Then? It hurt a lot. Afterwards there was just a black hole in my memory. I only recall hunkering down by the bed in your room. You weren’t there anymore, I was alone. Then I went to the living room, where both your and my parents were.

What I just described is called sexual abuse. What you did had terrible consequences to all levels of my personality–physical, psychological, social and spiritual. I was unable to bestow trust on anybody, I felt guilty all the time, I had problems communicating, I shunned boys, I was unable to have a relationship. I lived in complete isolation and loneliness. I thought I was supposed to forgive all the time. My mind was infected with the idea that I wasn’t clean, not good enough, not able to cope, that I was just a bag of garbage wearing human skin. I was convinced I had to run and hide all the time, that I had no future. I considered several times committing suicide. I was unable to feel, accept my body, my feminineness. The real world ceased to exist for me; there was only terror and dread at the thought of someone’s touch.

I want you to know that there is someone here whom you hurt and wounded badly. You mutilated something in her that you had no right to touch. I want you to know how much it cost me to get this far, to realize who I am, to admit that I was a victim of your perhaps impulsive act. I want you to know that there was bitterness, anger, hatred and terrible pain in my heart, that I cursed a lot, cried, mourned. I want you to know that even what you did as a teenager perhaps having problems with his sexuality, it does not excuse you! But I want you also to know that in my heart there is a desire to forgive you, though I do not condone what you did.

I want you to know that when you entered into my life, even if you didn’t mean to hurt me but lost control, doesn’t justify what you did. I want you to know of those nightmare moments when I wasn’t able to mix with people. In spite of the great impact your selfish and impulsive behaviour had on my life, you did not destroy me. I live as well as I can, I respect my body, I learned to communicate, to have relationships, I do have my values.

I want you to recognize the seriousness of your action. I want you to be completely honest and true to yourself–even if the truth is very painful. I would like to ask you to help me to forgive you. For I want you to know that I wish to let you out of the prison of “unforgiveness,” so your life can be fuller and blessed.

I could have confronted you, shouting and cursing, I could have asked for damages, truly justified. I could have soiled your name in front of your and my parents, while speaking the truth all the time. I could have taken legal action, but I just want to come to you and with trust and respect say three words: “I FORGIVE YOU.” I would even add a fourth word, your name: “I FORGIVE YOU, J.” I have no proof of what you did, the greatest proof is me.

Deeply moved I asked her what she intended to do with this letter. She thought to burn it and thus finish with this part of her life and move on forward. I suggested that she wait and consider sending it to her cousin. Afraid that it could fall into the hands of a family member, she said the only feasible option would be to hand it over to him personally. But to do this she needed more time. For several weeks nothing happened except that she read the letter to the support group. Then she added a last page to it:

“Some time has passed since I wrote the above and I want to add this. The time that has passed has been important and valuable for me because of new insights I have gained. I want to add this: Today is the 16th of October, about ten o’clock at night. I am quite positive now that forgiveness is something that can help us both you and me. I want you to know that there is no more bitterness in my heart, though the chill remains. Thanks to crossing the river over a bridge that first seemed so dangerous to me, thanks to being on the other side, I can tell you with peace in my heart: You are forgiven, I tore up the “outstanding debt” and I send you what I have received myself. You are forgiven, and if you destroy this letter I’ll understand. Believe me, I wanted to do this as a sign of complete human and divine forgiveness. I am offering you the opportunity to embrace the forgiveness which you know exists.”

She asked me to put this letter for a while into the tabernacle of our chapel and to pray daily for what would be the next step: giving it personally to her cousin. In November, she rang him–the first contact for years–inquiring when he would be at home. She asked me to drive her to the town where he now lived with his family. Her plan was simply to ring the doorbell, hand him the letter there outside the house and tell him that there was no time to stay because Father had an appointment in a different town further away. (As a good reason not to stay there, we truly intended to visit another woman of the support group).

The town of B. is some 150 km away from where I live. During the trip, Noemi was very tense. We tried to joke in order to release some tension. But then, things did not turn out exactly the way they were planned: When we arrived in front of the house, a 10 year old boy and his mother came down and told us: “He just went out. Come in.” J. had announced the visit not only to his own family, but also to his mother. There was no other way than to enter, drink tea, eat cakes and wait, trying to look relaxed.

After half an hour J. returned. The way he greeted and kissed her had something passionate about it. Later she said that it was a horrible moment and that she became as stiff as a statue. At least there were some other people in the room: Noemi’s aunty and an elderly man. But the heaviness of the situation was difficult even for me to bear. My nervousness grew by the minute as I was afraid we had to leave with no possibility for Noemi to give him the letter secretly.

We stayed for an hour and only at the very last moment when he accompanied us to the car did she get a chance to be with him alone for an instant. She handed him the letter saying simply: “Read it, when you are alone.” Outside the town in front of a wooden cross I stopped: she needed three quarters of an hour to release the tremendous tension built up within her. On the way back home, she relaxed more and more, but felt extremely tired. Up to now, two months later, her cousin has not responded.

Noemi has the grace and chance to have a psychotherapist, a support group and a priest to accompany her. Yet with all that help, the road has been extremely difficult and she is not yet at the end of her healing journey. My heart goes out to all the women out there who have been abused and who suffer in silence having nobody to listen to their story and to offer the help they need.

Fr Joe Hegglin, MSC

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