I’m not great at apologizing. My attempts always feel so bumbling and awkward, and there’s an undercurrent of petulant resistance that tries to thwart my efforts. In such moments, I’m at war with my ego, and the 9,582 reasons why I most definitely should not have to apologize scroll through my mind like the end credits of a movie. My ego loves to flatter itself, to believe that I was not wrong in the first place, or, if I obviously was, to believe that my offending behavior was somehow warranted or justified, and an apology is just not necessary. I know how bitter my pride tastes, and I have no interest in swallowing it. I want to hold on to that smug sense of superiority, to clutch it with selfish white knuckles. I do not want to give it up, and an apology requires that exchange. So I’m not great at apologizing, but I am getting better. We do foster care, and though we try to live at peace the best we can with the children in our care, arguments do break out between us. While I strive to not be the instigator, I am quick to the defensive, and exchanges become heated. It's not until the argument is over and the bedroom door slams that I'm flooded with shame and regret. I know that I should make amends, but it's hard to forget the blows I myself have suffered, especially when I did not strike first. I'm hurt and indignant, and I want an apology. But that's a big thing to ask of kids who grew up in homes where apologies are seldom given. Demanded of them, yes, and often for things they didn’t even do wrong. But given to them? Rarely, if ever. They have just not seen such a thing. How are they supposed to learn how to repair broken relationships if they’ve never had an example? So, as much as my ego wants to fight it, I know that I must be the one to show the way. I hate this, I really do—but it is getting easier with practice. I do want to be a person who is quick to apologize, even when I am not entirely in the wrong, even when I didn't start the argument. And when I am wrong, I want to own my mistakes and make them right. I want to be that person—I admire such strength of character in others, after all. But it’s not easy. As a foster mom, I know that I have to set the example. I am being given a chance to impact not only my foster child, but potentially every relationship in that child’s life. I am being given a chance to teach my foster child how an apology can deescalate conflicts and restore broken relationships. I have to teach the skill of apology, to empower the children in my care to go forth and do likewise. Apologies can be powerful things. They are hard to give, but when they are offered in good faith and humility, apologies are restorative. Taking that first step shows just how much you value that person and your relationship with them. It makes space for a response, but it does not expect or demand one. A sincere apology, no matter how awkwardly given, is always worth more than the words that convey it. I know that I wronged you, it says, and I care enough about you to wade through my own discomfort to reach out and make things right between us. And when they are accepted, they bring such relief, and I find myself wanting to be better, to not make the same mistake again. Apologies make us better people. When I am mindful of this larger, broader goal, I soften, and it becomes easier to summon the integrity to apologize. I’m still not great at it, but I don’t think that matters—the genuine attempt is what counts. And I’ve seen genuine attempts from our foster children in return. Their willingness to try is precious to me, and their apologies, even when given through gritted teeth with downcast eyes, are indeed worth more than the words that convey them. I have never, not once, regretted making an apology. In the end, our willingness to reestablish connection, to come together again and restore what has been broken, is what’s truly important, no matter how clumsy our efforts are.
0 Comments
On occasion, I work at an antique store. It can be slow, so to pass the time during stretches between customers, I wander the aisles, strolling among the McCoy pots and the vintage dresses, the vinyl records and mid-century modern furniture, and I just look. Not much changes here. It’s not supposed to – this place is a time capsule. There is a stained-glass kaleidoscope that always catches my eye on these ventures. (I love mirrors and stained glass, so of course it does.) The wheel is full of colored glass chips, translucent propeller beads, and a small plastic camel. (Yes, that says camel. It’s weird.) When you look at the components imprisoned within the wheel, it’s hard to imagine beauty. It looks like the bottom of someone’s junk drawer, like a confiscated toy and a broken necklace got stuck to the shards of a broken lollipop in the bottom of Mom’s purse. But every time I work here, I pick up the kaleidoscope, peer through the hole, and give the wheel a spin. No matter how I spin it, the result is stunning—even that odd plastic camel is somehow fractured and transformed. I’m always dazzled by the images, by the way such debris can be made beautiful by a simple shift in perspective. I bought that kaleidoscope today because I need to be reminded of this miracle. There are so many aspects of my life that feel irreparably broken, that feel awkward or out of place, that feel awful or unfair. I tend to fixate on them, like that plastic camel stuck in the wheel, and I cannot imagine how such crumbs could yield any beauty. I am quick to forget that those things serve a greater purpose—I only need to change my perspective to see it. This is what it means to hope. Hope is a kaleidoscope. It’s trusting that any circumstance has the potential to yield unexpected beauty. Hope means trusting that the result will be beautiful no matter how the wheel turns. Hope means surrendering our own ideas of what things should look like and allowing ourselves to be delighted instead by the surprise. It may not be what we expect, but it will be beautiful. I chose HOPE as my word for 2022. Usually I have more confidence in my choice, and this year, something in my gut said, “Pick it!”, but it felt so…off. Uncomfortable. I think I’ve had such distaste for hope because it requires a tolerance for uncertainty. I like tidy, sure things. (But I went with it anyway, because my gut is very loud sometimes.) I’ve been thinking about hope a lot since I chose it—reading devotionals and journaling about it—and I realized that this is a word I say all the time. But I have been using it so very carelessly. When I say, “I hope so,” which I so often do, I almost never have the confidence, belief, or trust that the word signifies. When I say, “I hope so,” what I actually mean is, “I wish.” When I say, “I hope so,” what I actually mean is, “Maaaaybe, but probably not.” When I say, “I hope so,” I actually mean, “This is unattainable.” When I say, “I hope so,” I actually mean, “Gosh, this would really be nice, but I don’t expect it to actually happen.” And honestly, I almost never expect it to actually happen. Hope is calling out blessings with confidence before they happen, and I’m so afraid of being wrong that I doubt. So every time I say the word “hope,” it’s sprinkled with the dust of my own insecurities. This lazy, ironic usage has robbed the word of its true power for me. My doubt has rendered hope impotent. I’ve been using “hope” as a throwaway word, and that needs to change. When I think about instances where I actually experience hope, I think about foster care. Foster care is all about hope. (My daughter’s first name means hope, and when we adopted her, she chose Hope as a new middle name.) When I see the kids we’ve fostered navigating the challenges of adulthood in ways that make me proud, I have hope. When we can look back on past successes, that gives us hope. It is easier to have hope in retrospect, but that’s not what hope is for. Hope is for now. Hope is present condition regarding a future desire. It’s about something we don’t have yet, and waiting for it with patience and confidence. We can look to the past for evidence of hopes fulfilled, but hope isn’t about the past. Hope is about holding on in this moment. Hope is about having faith in possibility. It’s a relentless belief that things will work out, even if they don’t work out in the way you thought they would. Hope means infinite possibilities…but it often means letting go of the possibilities you imagined. This has been a sticking point for me. I don’t like the idea of letting go of the possibilities I imagined, especially for my own life. (I have had oh-so-many shattered plans.) And hope requires us to dwell in a place of uncertainty, and that’s just hard. I like plans and order and predictability. But hope is the plan. There’s a tradeoff there: I have to exchange my tidy plans for the sprawling, inclusive possibility of hope. Things might not turn out how I imagined, but hope trusts that things will still be good regardless of the outcome. So this year, I am learning to use the word “hope” with more care. I am learning how to hold hope in this moment. I am learning to dwell in possibility. It’s uncomfortable and strange, but that’s where the hope lies. Can I do this? I hope so. |
Old Stuff.
January 2023
Categories.
All
|