The Gift

“To err is human; to forgive, divine.” – Alexander Pope

The desire for revenge is a built-in facet of human nature, and science leads us to the conclusion that the capacity for forgiveness, like the desire for revenge, may be yet another facet of human nature. Forgiveness and the lack of forgiveness can be akin to a double-edged sword, and each cuts thus. If one does not forgive, it only serves to eat away at the soul, like a stonecutter’s hammer and chisel, slowly chipping away at the large slab of marble. But to forgive also deeply cuts into one’s armor or marbled soul, leaving a long lasting scar as it is not an easy thing to achieve, especially under the worst of circumstances. Herein lies the story of true forgiveness, attained when it was previously thought to be lost or unattainable – a double-edged sword disposed of by melding it in the hottest of fires or by bestowing it upon someone like the Lady of the Lake in Excalibur for safe-keeping. Each is an action that will serve as a protective measure to safeguard one’s soul and everlasting dignity. Speaking with the conviction of experience, to do so will surely set one free and create a feeling more divine than nearly any other fathomable thing.

She sat stoically in front of the blazing fire, her face a mixture of emotions that ran rampant as she stared at the small lock box before her on the massive walnut desk. It was his desk and his lock box. She barely wanted to touch them less alone be in the same room with them, but she had no choice in the matter. She had a responsibility to confront what lay within the confines of the box. She was not used to making decisions or choices for herself, but here was one she absolutely must pursue. What secrets would this lock box divulge, she wondered?

The last several days had been exceedingly difficult, but she was a survivor and would continue to be one despite the challenges that she might continue to face. In some small way, with his death, she now felt a peace and a release of something akin to independence that was previously unbeknownst to her. It was hard to believe that his passing had allowed her this progression. His death had been unexpected, and thankfully, quite quick; he had not suffered. Despite the fact that he had been no true friend or spouse to her, she had never wished to impart any kind of suffering upon him. He was, after all, the father of her children, and she had at one time loved him though it was difficult at best to recall those times.

Abigail had been married to Ethan for twenty-four long years. He had used every manipulative trick in the book to keep her attached to his side, including threatening to take her two children from her. She had not doubted him at the time, although now she looked back on the threat as only that: a threat. Her children were older now – adults - but the voracity and the hurt of the threat still hung with an impenetrable thickness in the corners of her mind and heart. Thank God her children did not know, and she did not, and would not, have to explain such things to them. She couldn’t, after all, begin to explain to herself why she had stayed with him for so long despite the deep desire to flee.

He had not been abusive - or at least not physically. He had perpetually showed her off like a trophy, a valuable, ornate piece of jewelry, or a prized racehorse to all his friends and acquaintances, only speaking poorly of her to her own face within the confines of their home and behind closed doors. No one really knew the extent of what she’d endured. She had become his lackey, always doing his bidding and never expressing her own desires. Quietly, and without malice, she had done as she’d been instructed, biding her time. “One day,” she continually told herself. Well, it looked as though ‘one day’ had arrived at long last.

She held the thin, brass key to the lock box, turning it over repeatedly in her slim fingers. Listening to the crackle of the fire and the peaceful strands of Chopin that played in the background, she suddenly grasped the key determinedly, moving forward in her seat to take ahold of the lock box so that she could insert the key. It was rather large and deep and a bit heavy, nearly like a safe, and it gave her pause as she attempted to slide it closer. Chiding herself since she no longer had anything – or anyone - to fear, she reached to place the key in the small lock. It slid in quite easily and with a small twist of her wrist, it clicked, and she knew the box was unlocked.

In the dim light of the study, she slowly lifted the lid to reveal a little black notebook that completely covered what lay beneath it in the confines of the box. Curious, she removed the book and stifled a gasp as she saw several wrapped parcels of currency in the bottom of the box. Carefully lifting each one, she realized that there must easily be over five hundred thousand dollars within. All thought evaded her. How the devil had he kept so much money in such a way, and without her having a clue about it? And why was it not in the bank with the rest of the money? It must have taken him years upon years to put so much away like this.

Digging through the money, she found a small black, velvet bag at the very bottom of the box. Opening it, she found more money, but this amount, in lieu of being wrapped with a band by the bank, was tied with a red velvet ribbon and neatly placed inside the drawstring velvet bag. There was a small note with it that read, “For Italy.” Perplexed, she looked down, inordinately amazed by the vast amount of money that lay before her, half within the box and half strewn about on the walnut desk.

The soft delicate and enchanting strains of Chopin continued to play, filling the heaviness of the room and giving it a new freedom to breathe despite its sadness. Indeed, the music also seemed to fill her soul with a lightness she had not known for many years, and she felt the diminishment of a burden she had long since carried as her own breathing steadied and slowed. She sat for long moments, staring at both the money and the fire. Nothing she could have found in the lock box would have surprised her more than this. Or at least, so she thought.

At long last, she turned to the little black notebook, timidly opening it, a bit uncertain as to what secrets it might disclose. Her slim fingers trembled as she hesitantly and carefully turned the pages. There on the first page was an inscription in his handwriting that read: “To Abigail, with gratitude”. Beneath the first line, he had inscribed a small paragraph. Taking a huge breath, she continued to read what he had written:

“I have never shown you the love and appreciation you deserve. I fear I am ridiculously flawed and unable to love anyone, but it does not mean that I am not aware or appreciative of what exists - or that you are unworthy. You deserved better. I pray this money will help in some small way to forge a more comfortable and happy life for your future.”

He had signed it only ‘Ethan”. And beneath his signature, he’d written a simple post script: “The $20,000 in the velvet bag is for your dream. Enjoy Italy.”

She flipped the book to find that nearly all the notebook’s pages were filled with entries, dated as far back as their marriage began twenty years earlier, and the most recent entry had only made days before his death. Beside each dated entry, he had written an account of her patience, her humbleness, her loyalty, and her commitment in conjunction with some event or misunderstanding that had occurred during the marriage. But more importantly – and more surprisingly - he had also outlined a detailed account of his faults and his shortcomings alongside each of the entries detailing her attributes.

She had thought she was surprised by the money, but nothing on the face of the earth could have possibly amazed her more than what she’d just read. If she hadn’t been sitting in her seat, she would have surely fallen on the floor from the shock of it all. Surprise and something akin to sheer astonishment suffused her entire being. He had meticulously recorded nearly every single time he had faulted her, but instead of laying the fault at her feet, as he had been wont to do in real life, on the pages herein, he had described the events in total and undeniable truth, finding fault only in himself. He had known full well when he was wrong, as these writings clearly dictated, but he had never once been able to own it to her face. She had thought she had known him, but in truth, she now realized she knew him not at all.

Both a peace and a sadness infused her as she relaxed and leaned back in the leather chair as she contemplated the man behind the marriage and the writings in the little black notebook. Nearly like two separate identities, they were like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. How sad that he had never been able to say, “I am sorry” or to acknowledge his own weaknesses or faults beyond these writings. Instead, he had carried that burden to his grave, and she felt immense sorrow for him. And she felt something more: she felt undeniable and utter regret. She regretted that she had not striven to understand him better, or to help him more, and even perhaps, to love him more when he could not help or love himself. In truth, and despite his words to the contrary, he had loved her in his own way by releasing her from the burden of their years together, letting her know that he blamed her for nothing when she thought he blamed her for everything. How ironic that it took death for him to reach such a pivotal point, she mused. And how ironic that it also took such a thing for her to see the truth of the man whom she had married so many years earlier, and that she had loved once upon a time very long ago.

Slowly and methodically, she replaced the stacks of money along with the little black notebook into the lock box and picked up the key to relock it. She decided against putting the black, velvet bag that held the $20,000 back inside the box, choosing instead to keep it with her. Carefully, she tucked the small, handwritten note that read “For Italy” inside the velvet bag and drew the string tightly. It would be a new beginning for her now, and she, and she alone, would be responsible for any decisions regarding her own life. It was an undeniably freeing and wondrous feeling.

Grasping the bag against her chest, she leaned back in her seat and exhaled, sighing deeply, a multitude of emotions flooding her. At long last, she allowed the flow of tears and began to weep. She had not cried in many years and thought she no longer could. But the final gift from a man she barely knew, despite living with him for so long, had released all the anger, the resentment, and yes, the love, that she’d ever felt for him. But more importantly, through this difficult and long process, and in his death, she was able to forgive him, so the gift he had truly given her was invaluable: forgiveness. She was now able to mourn the man who could have been but never truly lived.

“To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.” – Lewis B. Smedes

“It’s one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself, to forgive.” – Maya Angelou