Forgiveness and White Roses

I forgive myself daily. I extend grace to my entire being over and over again, for big things and for small things. 

To run away from suffering is to miss many great blessings, for when we suffer for our bold faith, this is when the Spirit comes more fully upon us. 


And so I remain in the tension and I fight for my spiritual gifts. And in the battle, I often make mistakes- but none of them are fatal, because I have learned to have compassion on myself. This is because I love who I am, and this is how you treat one that you love. 

How, then, am I unable to so freely and repeatedly give that same grace and forgiveness out to others, the ones I am called by God to love?? 

The only word I know for this type of behavior is hypocrite. And I don’t want that label. So I immediately grant myself forgiveness- and lots of grace. Which begs the question I already asked. And the discussion with myself about this is cyclical. Which is why I turn to guidance to break the cycle. Before I write, I read.

“I was extremely hurt but denied it, even to myself. I would spend hours trying to figure out how all this could happen to me. I was in shock, numb, and amazed. But I suppressed these thoughts and put on a strong front when in reality I was weak and deeply injured.”

I sit in my backyard on a patio chair, book in one hand and a pen in the other. I am reading a work by John Bevere which was a gift from a mentor and friend of mine. Every time I come to a line like this one, I underline and hastily scribble notes in the margin before I forget my first impression.

This part of the book is getting good. Really good. And very hard to read.

“Months went by. Everything seemed dry, my ministry was stale, my prayer closet was lonely, and I was in torment. I fought devils daily.”

Yep. I feel you, bro.

I sit back, lower the book into my lap, and contemplate the atmosphere around me. The chair squeaks in protest as I recline back just a bit in order to get a better view of the rising slope behind my yard. There are those stupid pine trees, the ones I am worried about being a fire hazard, but which make the most delicious sound when the wind blows through them. When a breeze moves through their branches, I close my eyes and imagine I have been transported to a mountain hillside. I breathe deeply, open my eyes and return to the book at hand.

“I thought all the resistance was because of the call of ministry on my life, but in actuality it was the torment from my unforgiveness. Every time I was around this man I came away feeling spiritually beat up.”

The torment of unforgiveness. Oh. Something resonates inside my soul.

I lower the book again and observe a bed of white roses that stand tall and proud, just beyond my reach as I sit in my patio chair. They remind me of a time when I used to bring gifts to anyone who needed encouragement. Sometimes my gifts were money, gift cards, medicine, notes, vitamins, care packages, written prayers, meals, snacks, tiny plants or white roses…

Today I refrain from giving, because I am now in need of receiving. It is a disciplined season of fasting from service so that I can make room for the consumption of grace.

“Then came the morning I will never forget. I was sitting on the deck on my backyard praying. ‘Lord, am I hurt?’ I asked. No sooner had these words left my lips when I heard a shout deep in my spirit: ‘Yes!’ God wanted to make sure I knew I was hurt.”

I underline, scribble some words in the margin, then stop to look around. The sunshine is warm on my feet, which are propped up on another patio chair. I look out over the tall hill which rises up from the edge of our property, observing all the green plants and the massive weeping willow which stands halfway down from the wooden fence at the top. I watch a late morning hiker and his dog make their way rapidly across the trail above me, and shush my German shepherd when she sounds off the alarm.

“It’s just a man, it’s just a person. It’s OK, he’s only passing through on his walk.”

My shepherd looks at me doubtfully, gives a few snorts in protest, then goes to lie down beneath the bed of white roses. She watches me from there with her dark contemplative eyes while I continue to read.

“’God, please help me get out of this hurt and offense,’ I pleaded. ‘It’s too much for me to handle.’ This was exactly where the Lord wanted me—at the end of myself. Too often we try to do things in the strength of our souls. This does not cause us to grow spiritually. Instead, we become more susceptible to falling. The first step to healing and freedom is to recognize you are hurt.”

More underlining, some highlighting, more words scratched in haste. I hear the breeze in the pine trees but I don’t savor it now because I am so captivated by the words on the page.

“Often pride does not want us to admit we are hurt and offended. Once I admitted my true condition, I sought the Lord and became open to His correction. I was ready for the bonds of bitterness to be broken and to be free from oppression.”

I pause here, because I need to contemplate the words I have read. Why does it speak to a deep place in my soul, where it resonates with the same transporting power as the wind in the pines?

“A few days later I was attending a church service. The man who had offended me was there also. I watched him from the back of the church and began to weep. ‘Lord, I forgive him. I release him from everything he has done.’ Immediately I felt the burden lift. I had forgiven him. What relief flooded me!”

I put the book down on the patio table and stand up.  I shake my head and wonder, “But what about relapses, setbacks? There are so many! No. Forgiveness is not that easy. Forgiveness is not so simple.”

I go inside and look for a distraction from my thoughts- dirty dishes will do nicely.

Too often we try to do things in the strength of our souls.

While I am cleaning them, the view from my window is the white rose bed. My dog has gone, but the roses remain exactly the same. I glare at them and they glare back at me in protest. They demand a reckoning. My thoughts go scattered in many directions while I scrub with soap and warm water. And I compose a prayer to God in my heart…

Jesus, I tried.

Forgiveness is hard and feels unfair.

And now I feel that sense of urgency, when fear becomes a currency.

I am here in my kitchen dreaming about victory.

Why is this taking so long?

I would stand here and wash dishes all day if I thought it would help.

Does it help?

I have rebuked the devil, I have pleaded the blood, I have claimed the promises.

Where do I go from here?

I need a task to do.

So I am washing dishes in the sink.

Leaning over, scrubbing with soap and water, cleaning.

I can see my reflection in the window in front of me, white roses in the backdrop. A faded version of myself, projected against the bright white petals on the other side.

I am thinking, not really present in the kitchen but somewhere else instead. In my mind am sitting with You and confessing my broken heart.

But there is such a stubborn hard place between us, a million miles.

I am the one who put it there, and I am the one who keeps it.

When I pray in Your healing power, I feel like a warrior princess.

When I try to heal all by myself, I just feel small and helpless.

I must have prayed for freedom a thousand times. 
Jesus, I'm trying.

Dishes and soap and water.

I have a cup in my hand, I am turning it over and over under the faucet.

Cleaning this dirty cup from the inside out.

From the inside out, healing will come.

From the inside out, offense will be defeated.
From the inside out, forgiveness will spill forth.

Stop striving, beloved.

Be still.

As I am looking at my reflection, I am filled with self-righteous anger.

And anger is a sign of pain, and offense is a defense mechanism.

My hands stop scrubbing, I pause in mid-action.

I look at the white roses straight on thought the glass, and see them watching me.

Hope is fragile but it always leaves a remnant.
But if we run from the fight, we will miss it.

And anger is a sign of pain, and offense is a defense mechanism.

Stop running from your unforgiveness. 
Turn and face it.
Look for the remnant.

My spirit calls to Jesus, and I invite Him in, and so He rushes across a million miles of cussed stubbornness to be close to me.

Helping me to remember how it felt when I first fell at His feet.

You bowed down at My feet, you called Me beloved.

Meet with Me there again. Call on MY power.
I am your Teacher.

My prayer rises up out of my soul, going up and up into the sky, rising to the Son.

…Dishes done, I dry my hands and return to my book outside. Now it’s just me and the white roses and the hard words on the page, with nothing in between. The fresh air rushes into my lungs as I breathe deep.

I open up the page which is already marked up in so many ways. I continue to read where I left off.

“But this was only the beginning of my road to recovery. In my heart I had forgiven, but I wasn’t aware of the extent of the wound. I was still vulnerable and could be hurt again. It was just like recovering from a physical injury. I needed to exercise, to strengthen my heart, mind and emotions to prevent any future injuries.”

My dog barks again at another hiker, but this time I don’t even bother to correct her because I am so engrossed in the words that come next.

“Occasionally I still had to fight off some of the same thoughts I’d had before I forgave. I rejected these thoughts as soon as I noticed them and cast them down- this was my exercising or striving to stay free. A few months went by. It was a training period in which my heart was exercised and strengthened. During those months I seemed at times to be getting nowhere. In fact, I wondered if I had grown worse. Finally I asked the Lord how to keep these thoughts from drawing me back into unforgiveness. I knew He desired a higher level of freedom for me, and I did not want to live the rest of my life holding offense at arm’s length. The Lord instructed me to pray for the man who had hurt me.”

I laugh out loud- of course. How Christian, how clichéd. I had also prayed in this way, and yet here I was still seeing the whole world through the same old filter of pain, listening to the same tape of offenses playing over and over in my head.

 This book was not offering me anything I had not tried yet. I refuse to look at the white roses, because I do not want to remember all the acts of service I did in ministry. I do not want to remember how I loved, how I served. I want to harbor resentment, to cherish my offense, and I cannot do that if I remember how good it felt to give of myself so freely.

“My soul was definitely in sorrow. But God began showing me how to pray for this man: ‘Pray the very things for him that you want Me to do for you!’ And so my prayers totally changed. It was no longer a dry, monotone voice without a hint of passion, out of obligation asking God to ‘Bless him, give him a good day, help him in all he does, amen.’ My words became infused with life, crying with passion and saying things like ‘Lord, reveal Yourself to him in a greater way. Bless him with your presence. Let him know You more intimately. May he be pleasing to You and bring honor to Your name.’ I prayed for him what I wanted God to do in my own life." 

Oh.

This was something I had not done yet. This was different. This was new. This was hard.

Ask God to give to someone else the very things I coveted for myself? Open up the possibility that another could be blessed in the way that I wanted for myself, through the power of my own prayers? Could this be why my idea of forgiveness was so hard to achieve, because it came from a selfish place? 

Something resonated deeply in my soul- there was a cry from way down in my spirit. I looked at the white roses and they nodded their budded heads gently in the breeze.

I lean forward to pick up some of the petals that had fallen onto the brick. I rub them between my fingers and feel their soft, cool smoothness. I continue to hold them while I read more.

“I had gone from praying for him for my sake to praying for him for his sake. I no longer had to fight the pain, nor was I critical of him.”

To pray for another for the sake the other and not myself- this was a nourishing concept to my hungry mind. To ask God to bless the other in the way that I myself wanted to be blessed- this was a spiritual practice that would take discipline over the course of many days. To give away, in prayer, my blessings instead of just my forgiveness- this could only happen with the help of divine Spirit.

A short ways further down the page and I found the exact words I needed to persuade me that this author knew what he was talking about.

Because I want all these words to be my own:

“When I first met that man he could do no wrong in my eyes. I saw no faults in him I loved him because I thought he was perfect. But when I was hurt, it was hard to love him. It took every bit of faith I had. Now that I have gone through this restoration process and have been healed, I love him with the same intensity as when I first met him, in spite of any faults. It’s a mature love. It is easy to love those who can do no wrong in our eyes. That’s simple love. It is another thing to love someone when we can see their faults, especially when we’ve been the victim of them. The love of God was maturing me and strengthening my heart thought this process. My heart was exercised to stay free from offense. I was on the sure road to recovery. I would not trade that experience and am thankful for the growth it brought to my life.”

I grab my pen and my highlighter and go to work. When I am done, I write ‘AMEN, YES I WANT THIS! Help me Jesus!’ in all the margins. I grab a sticky note and mark the page. I rise to my feet and look around me again.

The greens look greener, and the whites look whiter.

I stand there with a book of offense in one hand and white rose petals in the other. A symbolic picture of our Christian tension in this world.

We all stand and wait for deliverance from unforgiveness with fear clenched in one hand and a remnant of hope held tightly in the other. 

Jesus teach me how to love like You.

I smile at the white roses now because I have a divine power- I can pray my coveted blessings over someone else. This is the persuasive abundance I needed today.

When I come across 1 Peter 4:12-13 I know I have found a precious treasure, and so I write it in my personal journal because I will need it for later, when I am learning how to pray:

“Beloved, do not think it strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened to you; but rejoice to the extent that you partake of Christ’s sufferings, that when His glory is revealed, you may also be glad with exceeding joy.”

A handful of white rose petals. A remnant of hope. Forgiveness is calling.

When I drop to my knees at the foot of Your cross to pray, I come empty except for a small, soft, glowing hope.

I meditate, I fall to my knees, I lay prostrate before the cross, I practice centered prayer, I dwell on Your Presence, I worship in solitude.

I want to win this victory with You Jesus. The words of John Bevere bolster my courage.

 “Hard places will always come in our journey with the Lord. We cannot escape them but need to face them, for they are part of the process of becoming perfect in Him. If you choose to run from them, you will seriously hinder your growth. Recovery is your choice. Some people get hurt and never recover. That is their choice. Yes, it’s true that there are some offenses that will not go away easily or quickly. You will have to work through them, striving to get free. But in that process you will grow and mature. This glorifying is to the degree that you allow Him to perfect His character within you. So don’t look at the offense. Look at the coming glory.”

Someday I will give gifts of white roses again, when this long season of maturing is at its completion. Until then, I can practice by giving gifts of prayer. And I will continue to sit beside the rose bed and read the words of others who have been here too and can help me along the path to freedom.

And while I am reading, underlining and jotting notes in the margin, the white roses will be peeking over my shoulder and nodding their heads in silent agreement, dropping remnants of white petals all around my feet.

And forgiveness will heal.

Thank you Jesus.

Amen.

Rebecca

To learn more about my personal story, click here.