“Then Peter came to Him and said, “Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? Up to seven times?”

Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you, up to seven times, but up to seventy times seven.” (Matthew 18:21-22)

Forgiveness is a weighty topic. In reality it’s messy, often involving personal and painful situations. And it is clear that the Lord tells us we are supposed to forgive, not just occasionally or when it suits us, but up to seventy times seven. The breadth of this command can feel overwhelming, especially when we face it in the context of our own wounds. But it’s also clearly important that we wrestle with it. 

I generally find the idea and practice of forgiveness easier in personal relationships. Or rather I shouldn’t say easier, but simply a necessity. It is clear that I should work to move past hurts with my husband, sister, mother: there is a relationship at stake there. But it’s much harder to hold when it’s not so personal, when the hurt comes from those who are more distant, whether they are public figures or strangers whose actions affect me or those I love. What about those who commit atrocities in the news, like murderers or child abusers? Or acquaintances whose views or actions have hurt people or ideals dear to me?

There are lots of analogies to describe what grief is like. One that especially resonates with me is that grief is like a hole in the floor of our house. When the loss is fresh, it seems that we can’t escape the room that has the gaping hole in it. It looms large before us and we fear falling in and never being able to crawl back out. 

Eventually, we find that we are able to navigate carefully around the hole and maybe even venture to other rooms in our house. But sometimes, when we aren’t paying attention, we will suddenly find the hole right at our feet, threatening to pull us over the edge. This happens when unexpected things trigger our grief—a certain smell, a date on the calendar, coming across a memento, or just because it’s time—whether we like it or not—to feel the hard feelings again.

As more time passes, we wind up spending less and less time in the room with the hole in the floor. The hole is still there, of course. It doesn’t get smaller. But, if we let it, the house gets bigger. And herein lies the key to growing with grief. We can only extend this metaphorical house of ours if we allow the Lord to be the Architect. If we hand our lives over to the Him, including all of our joy and all of our sorrow, He will expand our dwelling into a veritable palace. He will enrich our lives by adding countless rooms full of experiences, memories, opportunities, and love. So much love. The new love in our lives doesn’t erase our loss, but it can soften the edges of it. 

I have been reading a very touching book by Rev. Geoffrey Childs called The Path: the Inner Life of Jesus Christ.  In the first chapter (page 22), in describing the Lord’s infancy on earth, Rev. Childs cites Arcana Caelestia 1438, which says that Jesus “attained to the celestial things of love.”  In explaining this statement, Rev. Childs writes, “The celestial things of love are the inmost keys to life.  Every infant is surrounded by celestial states of innocence and of love toward the Lord.  Infants live in a garden of love where the best things of life are implanted without knowledge being involved.  These are the innocent qualities called ‘remains.’  Feelings of love and peace ‘remain’ hidden within us our whole lives.  These ‘remains’ are protected, and are awakened in us by the angels at various times in our lives.  Remains enable us to be truly human and to shun evils as adults, and be saved” (page 23).  (According to my limited understanding, it’s possible to have remains implanted in us at other times in our lives, but the process of implanting remains is particularly notable in infancy.)  

I seem to remember encountering the idea that these strong and beautiful gifts deep inside us from the Lord are a kind of counterbalance to the hereditary inclinations to evil that we are all born with.  I find the whole idea of remains so reassuring and inspiring. 

Editor’s Note: We are republishing Katya’s article because of a glitch that prevented comments on the original post. Sorry for the confusion!

Some of you may know that our family is going through a journey together, along a road that has taken us all to places unanticipated and even unimagined. My mom has shown signs of dementia for years, who knows how many? Slowly and often imperceptibly growing, often without change or attention for months, and then a leap forward with a telling comment, or outburst, or uncharacteristic action, that leaves us with more questions than before.

After a stint in the hospital due to a UTI (which is a brain virus for seniors) and C-Diff, a dreaded infection that stems from antibiotics, my mom, who is rarely, if ever, sick or injured, returned home with a body much recovered after years of neglect, and a brain that had developed much further into dementia. It seemed that she was dying, which she daily requested that we orchestrate, and which provided the only end in sight that looked possible or feasible. But slowly it became apparent that her body was still recovering from illness, and her mind was not going to recover beyond a certain point. And thus we quickly pivoted to move her into assisted living (which she had often mentioned in the past, certain she belonged there) which, once there, she alternately appreciated and hated. That was over six months ago.

I am currently reading a book called “Travelers to Unimaginable Lands” which analyzes not just the disease of Alzheimers but the relationship of patient with the caregiver. Reading this has given voice to some of my most difficult questions and feelings. Caregivers, being human, cannot help but be drawn into the reality of someone with dementia, unless and until they come to the clear conclusion that the person is not really “there” anymore, in which case all motivation for loving them and caring for them becomes a moot point. So of course we search for the person, we rejoice when we see him/her, and we encourage actions, thoughts and feelings which we find desirable or healthy. The closer we are to the person with dementia, the harder it is to simply have a dispassionate compassion, which is the most sustainable mental perspective of a caregiver who must withstand daily, minute changes in everything from mood to purposeful action, including those that feel very close to being the “real” person!