Follow Suit: Forgiving Myself

March 2009—the light dances on the river, warping and falling into itself, shining with energetic movement. It is cold. But not too cold—my breath shows like smoke in the air while I watch the ballet of light and water. No one is with me. It is almost one in the morning and no one is in sight.

I do not have my iPod, which is rare; I do not have my phone, which is rarer. I have a book only. I sit on a bench and open the book to the gospel of Matthew, chapter 11, verses 28 through 30. I read the verses over and over again—my eyes scanning the words, then looking up, then scanning again.

In high school, sporadically, I struggled with depression. A few times it got fairly bad—suicidal thoughts, wondering why I'm here at all—late night drives listening to "Round Here" or "A Long December"—smoking cigarettes in an empty parking lot underneath the moon's pale and heatless light.

Still, even now, I feel the effects of night—I usually talk less; I retreat inward, reflecting on the day and on my shortcomings. Just recently, I was in the car with a friend at night—I was almost silent as we drove the dark streets, the snow crunching beneath the wheels. Why aren't you talking? she asked. It's making me nervous, she said. I make an excuse, but fail to tell her that with the beginning of the night the memories are dark and at night I feel most alone.

Finally I saw a counselor, talked to my parent's about it and a mentor and friend. A few weeks after my trip to Nigeria, I saw this counselor. I saw Angie five times. While there, I discovered the root of my depression, the foundation—an inability to cope with my own sin. To people, I said, Yes I am forgiven by Jesus. But to myself I said, You will never be good enough.

At the river, by the moving water, with the book in my hand, I simply chose to realize that if God loves me, I should. I forgave myself.

Though some describe me as a romantic, I was never one for instant changes, for magical moments, for single points in time that alter everything after. And maybe it's a safe thing to assume that doesn't happen, but that night by the river—it did.

I prayed to God over and over, Let me do this, let me accept Your love. I prayed, I forgive myself it is all right I am okay if You say that I am. I prayed and freedom rushed over my body like a river—rushed over my whole being, my soul, my body, my heart. Freedom and a desire to love others because only now was I beginning to see that I am loved deeper than the ocean, and that other people need that love too.

A verse in 1st John says, We love because He first loved us. In my head, I always knew what that was supposed to mean, but only now is its true meaning seeping into my heart.

With love,
h