Saying "I Forgive You" and the Grace That Followed

Note: This blog post is a bit more personal and tender than my usual ones. I wrote it in the wake of my father's passing as a way to honor his memory. It's also a little longer than what I typically share, but I think you'll understand why as you read. My prayer is that it encourages and blesses your heart.

"I forgive you."

Saying those three words can unleash an abundance of grace that has been buried deep and waiting with anticipation to wash over wounded hearts.

There are few memories I can recall of spending time with my father as a young child. I was very young when my parents divorced. It's not that my brother and I had no contact with him afterward, but it was minimal. He passed away unexpectedly this month. This blog won't be a litany of regrets or complaints—at least it's not the intent. Rather, it’s an effort to remember the love he was able to express and the lessons God has shown me along the way.

My father was a Cuban immigrant. He was about twenty years old when he came to New York, where he met my mother and they married. They later moved to Florida, where my brother and I were born. For a few years they owned a grocery store and were quite successful. It was during the latter part of those years that my parents divorced. I have no recollection of it, as I was only four or five years old at the time.

My mother moved us farther south in Florida, where my brother and I spent most of our childhood and teenage years. It was then that the court-mandated weekend visits with my father began.

There wasn't much structure to those visits, just time with our dad whenever he could have us. Sometimes his promises fell short, and eventually that became the pattern. Yet my little girl's heart continued to hope and long for our time together.

I didn't know it then, but a subtle sense of abandonment was taking root in my heart. My father wasn’t far in distance, but he rarely made himself present to me. As I grew into a young woman, physically, emotionally, psychologically, and spiritually, those experiences left their mark. Anyone who has lived something similar understands the lasting effects, so there's no need to recount details.

Don't get me wrong—I loved my father then, and I still do. But those experiences distorted my understanding of love and, perhaps even more deeply, my understanding of being loved.

As I matured and began a family of my own, I slowly gained clarity about the beauty of spousal love and parental love. They were foreign to me in many ways, yet I knew they were true and authentic. The Lord was teaching me while quietly healing me.

As family life became busier, my visits with my father became even more infrequent. Some might say I carried a "daddy wound," and perhaps I did—though I didn't know it then.

As my husband and I tried to figure out the "perfect parenting model" (which, by the way, we never did), I became increasingly aware of the void left by the absence of an earthly father's love. Yet that awareness came only within the greater reality of my Heavenly Father's love.

I was a young mother growing in love and faith, and my Heavenly Father was showing me that He had always been there. He had never abandoned me.

Then He asked me to do something I didn't fully understand.

He asked me to forgive my father.

You see, the deeper and wider we grow in our love for the Lord, the deeper and wider He reaches into our hidden wounds. Especially the ones we would rather leave untouched. He never uncovers them to shame us. He uncovers them to heal and restore them.

So, I forgave my father. I forgave him interiorly. I forgave him many times in the confessional. But I never told him.

In the Parable of the Unforgiving Servant, Jesus says:

"His master summoned him and said to him, 'You wicked servant! I forgave you your entire debt because you begged me to. Should you not have had pity on your fellow servant, as I had pity on you?' ... So will my heavenly Father do to you, unless each of you forgives his brother from his heart." (Mt. 18:32–35)

I won't count the ways the Lord has forgiven me, but they are [very] many, far more than I could ever remember. I understood that complete forgiveness isn’t optional. It’s the bedrock of Christianity. No forgiveness, no Christian. And that part about, “from his heart” is the greatest detail.

Years passed, yet the unrest in my heart was still there, as though something had been left unfinished. The theme of forgiveness kept surfacing in prayer.

I would tell the Lord, "Lord, I've already forgiven him many times."

My father was growing older, and I wondered if there was still something unresolved within me, or him.

Finally, I asked, "Jesus, what do You want of me?"

The answer didn't come audibly or immediately, but it came.

Firmly, I felt these words pressed upon my heart:

"Tell him you forgive him."

Immediately, my excuses followed.

"Lord, he'll ask, 'For what?' Then I'll have to explain. I don't know if I can do that!"

But the words wouldn’t leave my heart.

I visited my father in June of this year. We had a wonderful visit, but as we hugged goodbye after exchanging "I love yous," he said something quite unusual:

"This will be the last time I see you."

At this time my dad had periods of confusion, though he could still carry on conversations and was relatively healthy. He was also known for being sarcastic and a joker, so I didn't think much of it.

But after I returned home, those words troubled me. So did the Lord's persistent request.

My father was a non-practicing Catholic, and conversations about faith or religion were almost nonexistent between us. But, in obedience, I [finally] made the call.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, I told him there was something I wanted to say.

He said,

"Okay, go ahead."

Trying desperately to hold back tears and emotions I didn't even realize I was carrying, I said,

"Dad... I forgive you."

As expected, he asked, "For what?"

Then came the hard. As honestly and as charitably as I could, I shared how his absence and broken promises had affected me. I wanted so much to honor both his dignity and his fatherhood, while speaking the truth. And I sincerely believe that I did.

His first response was simply,

"Oh."

That was it.

I felt as though I had just run an emotional marathon only to be met with a single syllable.

Then he asked something strange and unexpected.

"You go to church every day, don't you?"

I had never shared that with him. We rarely, if ever, spoke about faith.

"Yes," I answered.

Then I asked whether he still went to church.

He replied, "Oh... it's been a long time."

There was a good bit of silence, I sensed it’s all that was needed. Then, after a few more casual words, we said goodbye.

I didn't know what to make of the conversation. I wasn't even sure he fully understood everything we had talked about.

But something had changed. A lasting peace was making its home in my heart.

And there was a tenderness and love for my father that I hadn't felt before.

He passed away peacefully in his sleep just four weeks later.

And something became crystal clear to me … love has absolutely no boundaries. And that’s exactly the point. But we insist on setting boundaries, don’t we?

It’s not a feeling, a positive thought, or a distant fantasy.

Love is a choice.

The one who chooses to love makes an intentional decision to love at all costs, regardless of its returns. We need only look to Our Lord Jesus Christ to know this is true.

His example isn’t reserved for saints alone. He calls every one of us to follow Him, even, and especially, in the hardest moments.

My father gave the love he knew how to give.

Perhaps his own wounds only knew how to offer wounded love. Isn't that true for all of us?

But it was love nonetheless.

He taught me to search for the glimmers of love where I might otherwise have seen nothing at all. I never lost hope. When he was present to me, he was very present.

My father chose freedom when he came to this country, and because of that choice my brother and I were able to enjoy that same freedom. He also chose an extraordinary woman to be my mother. I could write volumes about her courage, perseverance, love, and virtue. Stay tuned.

As for everything in between, the parts of the story I will never really know, I no longer need to know.

The Lord has shown me enough. He has shown me how love behaves and how it responds.

St. Thérèse of Lisieux reflected on Christ's words, "Greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends" (Jn. 15:13), and wrote:

"I understood that charity consists in bearing with the faults of others, in not being surprised at their weakness, in being edified by the smallest acts of virtue we see them practice. But I understood above all that charity must not remain hidden in the bottom of the heart."

Those words have transformed me deeply.

Forgiveness, too, must not remain hidden in the bottom of the heart.

Sometimes it must be spoken out loud.

Not because the other person deserves it. Not because it will necessarily be received well.

But because love is meant to be lived, and forgiveness sets both hearts free, even when only one of them knows it.

I believe the Lord truly works all things for the good of those who love Him, and even for those who know and love Him only a little. His mercy knows no bounds.

I don't know the eternal effects of that final conversation with my father.

But I know this: I am grateful I obeyed.

I continue to pray for my father's soul and for his eternal salvation.

If you are willing, I would be grateful if you would pray for him too.

His name is Pedro (Peter), his middle name is Israel.

Holding onto a Wound of Unforgiveness...

Maybe your story is different from mine. Maybe the person who wounded you is still living, or maybe they've already gone home to the Lord. Whatever the circumstance, please receive these tender suggestions that may help you open your heart to God's healing grace.

• Bring the wound honestly before Jesus (be as raw as you need to). Don't minimize it. The Lord can’t heal what we refuse to give Him.

• Choose forgiveness before the feelings arrive. Forgiveness is first an act of the will. Our emotions may or may not follow. Persevere and be patient.

• Pray for the grace to see the other person's wounds, not just your own. This doesn't excuse what happened, but it can soften a heart that has carried pain for too long.

Forgiveness may take a long time and many attempts, but please don't stop trying. It’s a journey of grace, one step of obedience at a time.

I don't claim to be an expert on forgiveness or anything else, but here’s what I’m certain of: the more we pursue authentic love, the thinner the veil between Heaven and earth becomes.