by Dori Killion
As much as I like to turn every reason to celebrate into a marathon, there is a rhythm that I feel compelled to follow. There are dark sides to the moon.
It is a mystery the amount of remorse I will carry for all the wrongs of humanity, of man’s inhumanity to man. It is a mystery that I am born white, middle class and living in the USA, enjoying excess knowing others have not enough.
“I am only human,” I say, which does not leave me feeling exonerated. Must it take a Good Friday to heal me of this disease? People risk their lives and die in the name of justice all the time. If we were truly sorry, we would war no more.
“Sorry” is not enough. Those stupid things I’ve done, those horrible things I’ve said, the pain I’ve inflicted … sorry is just not enough.
These experiences of failure and shame will rob me of all energy. I want to give up. Answering the call for reparations feels monumental and I am most inclined to tell the universe and all it’s offerings to go away and leave me with my black cloud. These are times when just showing up is more like being saved.
I have conversations with myself about breaking promises, about being a person who wears a peace sign but is sometimes a source of conflict, about wasting time and making excuses for not changing my life, about habits that have grown a life of their own. What follows is that word “sorry” … another window to God who restores my self worth. Again and again I am liberated and reminded that I have the power to process my failures and to process the grief that goes with being wrong. Apologies can be made. Wounds can heal. Things can change.