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 one's essence, 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 essence, 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 being 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 lockbox before her on the massive walnut desk. It was his desk and his lockbox. 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 lockbox divulge, she wondered?

The last several days had been difficult, but she was a survivor and would continue to be one despite the challenges that she might face. In some 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 quite quick; he had thankfully 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 to recall such.

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

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

She held the brass key to the box, turning it over repeatedly in her slim fingers. Listening to the crackle of the fire and the peaceful strains of Chopin, she suddenly grasped the key with determination as she moved forward in her seat so that she could insert it. The box was rather large and a bit heavy, 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 it was unlocked.

In the dim light of the study, she 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 saw a suspicious brown paper wrapped package. As she removed and unwrapped it, she gasped; there were several packs of currency therein. Carefully counting the money, she realized that there was easily over five hundred thousand dollars. All thought evaded her. How the devil had he kept so much money in such a way and without her having a clue? And why was it not in the bank? It must have taken him years to put so much money aside.

Replacing the money in the box, she found a small, black velvet bag nestled at the bottom of the lockbox. Retrieving and untying it, she found more money, but this amount, in lieu of being wrapped by the bank, was tied with a red ribbon and neatly placed inside the black velvet bag. There was a handwritten note with it that read, For Italy. Perplexed, she looked down, inordinately amazed by the vast amount of money that lay before her, some within the box and some strewn about on the walnut desk.

The soft delicate strains of Chopin continued to play, filling the heaviness of the room and giving it a newfound freedom to breathe despite the permeating sadness. Indeed, the music 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 lockbox would have surprised her more than this. Or at least, so she thought.

After a long while, 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 flawed and unable to love anyone, but it does not mean that I am not aware or unappreciative of what does exist - or that you are unworthy. You deserved better. I hope this money will help 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 $15,000 in the black velvet bag is for your lifelong dream - enjoy Italy.”

She flipped the book open to find that nearly all the pages were filled with entries, dated as far back as their marriage began twenty-four years earlier, with the most recent entry made only days before his death. Beside each 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 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 little black notebook. They were nearly like two separate identities or Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. How sad that he had never been able to say, “I am sorry” or to acknowledge his own weaknesses and 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 had taken 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 once loved.

Slowly and methodically, she replaced the stacks of money along with the little black notebook into the lockbox 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 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 and exhaled a deep sigh as a multitude of emotions left her. At long last, she allowed the flow of tears and wept, beginning the release of pent up emotions from many long years. It was as if she was a bird and learning to fly, soaring to unknown heights. This was the final gift from a man whom she barely knew despite living with him for so long, and it had helped to release so much anger, resentment, and even love. But more importantly, through this difficult and long process, she was able to forgive him, so the gift he had truly given her was invaluable: that of forgiveness. And 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