I was heading toward them.
I could think only one thing,
“Let’s finish this now!”
And I clenched my own fists.
This is part two of this story – it really needs part one to make sense. That’s here. And I just remembered, when you get there I tell you that needs background and link further back. But I promise if you read the history you will be glad you did. Hard forgiveness is required when harder offense has been committed.
He stomped in one direction, me heading firmly to head him off.
We met literally eye to eye.
Inches from him,
he couldn’t walk around me if he wanted to.
And he did suddenly want to.
He needed a way to justify his anger. Because here’s the thing. His rage always hid beneath, irate about work, or his life, or the weather, something. But in order to unleash it he would wait for a “reason” and explode. Then it could be justified and blamed on someone else. Oh how our minds work.
My brother holding his ankle would be enough to do that.
Except, I was in his way.
Eyes were close enough see different colors in the pupils.
Faces near enough to feel each other’s breath.
Chests almost touching.
I had 20 years of built up rage that was, at that moment, begging to be released.
I’ve never once hit someone.
I was in a fight once.
It involved a girl, and her ex boyfriend, her very large ex boyfriend, and a bar.
It was in the pre-Christian era.
It lasted one punch.
I didn’t throw it.
So I’ve never been a fighter. Words were always my thing. My big mouth got me into trouble – and then usually got me out of it.
But this time I was ready. I was stronger, younger, faster, and well able to confront this man’s unrelenting wrath with my own. I was doing all I could, silently beseeching him to take a shot. Just. one. shot. Just to give me an excuse to pay him back for years of … unfairness.
He shuffled to the left.
I blocked him…
to the right…
and I blocked him again.
Then came the words sprayed in my face, words I knew well. I’d heard them from the time I was 5.
A hot blast of anger and volume and, “What are you an idiot?!”
“No. I. am. not!”
I thought that would do it. I was ready. I might even have prayed for him to take a swing. This too was in the pre-Christian era. But he didn’t. He backed off. And as he backed down I can remember thinking “NO!”
“Are you OK?” he asked my brother – around me, not looking to pass through me anymore. My brother said, “Yeah.”
My one chance to get even, to pay back, was slipping away and I didn’t want it to. But I could see the furor subside in his eyes, and his fists unclench, and he walked away.
I seethed. How could it be that the one time in my life I wanted to see his temper, and meet it with rage of my own, that he would deprive me of the chance!
And how does someone let go of this kind of hatred?
How could I?
Because I did.
And I can tell you this.
Though I did forgive.
It wasn’t really me.
Someone a little higher was responsible.
There is more…
Please come back.