Three Strikes

I've had three different beginnings to this post, and each one seems inadequate for the apologies, metaphors, and epiphanies in my head.  I want to get it exactly right.  I want to write an essay that is both overwhelmingly wise and merciful, while still skewering those I'm mad at.  I've realized that type of writing is impossible because those two emotions can't exist at the same time.  And I'm a little scared to put this out there because it shows so many parts of me I'm not proud of.

I have long acknowledged that mercy is a weakness of mine.  I have a hard time forgiving people, partly because I have such high standards and partly because I'm sensitive.  I feel easily, both good and bad, even though I've been giving into the bad more easily these days.

And partly because you feel powerful when you withhold mercy.  It feels good to have a list, full of people you haven't forgiven yet.

I've realized in the game of life, I've recruited everyone to my baseball league.  Whether people knew it or not, they were all on home plate.  I've made a comeback to my old position of pitcher, and instead of my previous slow pitch, I keep winding it up and slicing it perfectly across the plate.

Some people get out quickly, three strikes no problem.  One rude remark, one inadequate group assignment, and one late appearance, and hey batter, batter swing.  You're out.

I haven't thought much about those people Not exactly forgive and forget, more like roll my eyes and forget.  If I'm ever CEO of an aggressive, ruthless company, this skill may serve me well.  But to be frank, I don't ever want to be in that position because the rest of me so desperately wants to recognize the humanness of people.

The real problem comes with people who don't get out so easily and their mistakes are unforgettable.  It comes with people I hold in my heart.  The people I thought I would do anything for.  The people I pray for, fast for, cry for.  The people I laugh with and go to, with the good and the bad news of life.  They are my friends and my family and my confidantes.  They consist of God and my Savior and myself.

And if I'm going to be brutally honest, everyone keeps striking out.  I'm standing, frustrated and sobbing on the pitcher mound, wondering why the home plate is empty.  I'm wondering where my home team is.  I'm wondering why I almost have a panic attack in the parking lot, with no one asking me if I'm ok.  I'm wondering why I'm walking across the HFAC patio, with no one to turn to for advice.  I wonder why I'm running by myself, with no one to keep pace, and in more ways than one, I'm running away from everyone.  I'm wondering why I don't have cookies on my porch, text messages on my phone, and cards in my mailbox.  I'm wondering why I'm walking to church by myself, again.  I'm wondering why there is so much hurt, with no one around to give me a bandaid.

Because no one seems to win in Elise's baseball league.  People keep striking out, again and again.  Even when I feel like I've given more than easy pitches or more than just three outs.  I lob a text message over the plate, send multiple prayers their way, and seem to always write the first thank you note.

Today I was yelling to God, why did everyone leave me?  Why do I feel so much like collateral damage?  Why is it that I thought people who would be in the foxhole with me are happily trotting to safety, leaving me behind?

And part of me is disgusted I'm even articulating this, but the other part of me is still hurt, and a smaller part of me is still asking in a hurt voice, why?

I don't know why.  I don't know why forgiving is so hard.  I don't know why I still hurt.  I don't know why I have happily been adding to my 'People I need to Forgive' list, when in reality it becomes a 'Look how many people have hurt Elise' list.

And in all of the irony, I'm asking for forgiveness.  I'm sorry for everyone on my home team, when I didn't notice the prayers.  I'm sorry when I ignored your cries for help.  I'm sorry when my homework became more important than your soul.  I'm sorry for the times I lied when I said I was happy for you, I wish I could take it back and be genuine.  I'm sorry for not being on the phone, when you truly, really needed me.  I'm sorry for bringing you my heap of hurt, and glaring at you, wondering why you aren't taking it away.  I'm sorry for having my own life so close to my face, that I literally couldn't see anything else other than cancelled time and another reason for me to cry alone in my car.

I'm not any better at forgiving or letting everyone retire from this gladiator-like baseball game I've created.

But I really want to be. I really, truly, honestly want to be.  My hand aches from keeping score and gripping too hard on past plays that should have fixed it.

And this is me saying I'm sorry for blaming everyone else for my pain, when it was really me who should have been apologizing for not looking past it.  Thanks for still sticking with me, to all of those people on my home team.  Even when I've been an absolute beast of a pitcher on the mound.

I'm trying to change the rules of the game.  And that's all I got.

xo. Elise