Forgiveness is hard.
The pain is real, and honestly, the person who hurt us shouldn’t just stroll off into the sunset without consequences, at least, not according to our human sense of justice. But then again… if we’re truly being honest, most of us have left a few bruises ourselves.
I don’t know about you, but my personal blacklist is long enough to require an appendix, and yet, God forgave me anyway. All of it. Every mess-up, every moment of pride, every time I said something I regretted five minutes (or five years) later.
Still, forgiving others is tough.
The good news is: God knows forgiveness doesn’t come naturally. He never asks us to fake it or force it. Instead, He gently leads us, and by His grace, helps us do what we could never do on our own. That’s what this week’s story is all about.
I hope, the story A Splinter in the Soul touches your heart and nudges your thoughts toward the only One who is truly good, and who truly understands the weight of both pain and mercy.
Wishing you a beautiful weekend, full of peace, love, and maybe even a few unexpected chuckles.
Yours in Christ,
JK
A Splinter in the Soul
By J.K. Stenger
“Mean,” he had called her. Not just once, but again and again until the word lodged itself in her being like a splinter. “You are an unpleasant girl, Eleanore. From now on, I’ll call you Mean.”
It had brought tears to her eyes that stung to this very day. More than twenty years had passed since she’d last seen him, but the weight of his harsh words still played in her mind like an unwanted symphony of pain. The day he left she’d just turned eight. The memory was still a pool of emotions and ragged pains. That day, he slapped mother and slammed the door so loud, it sent their cherished porcelain vase crashing to the floor. With a triumphant, “I’ll never return!” he sneered his final jeers.
Of course, he had been the mean one, not her, but the scars still remained.
And now … he was dying. She had gotten a phone call a few days ago.
“Eleanore James?” a voice inquired.
‘Yes, who is this?”
“This is the hospital. Your father Thaddeus James is dying.”
It all came back in a flash. His drunken brawls, his violence, but especially the meanness he displayed towards her great love for writing poetry.
From the day she could hold a pen, the inspiration just flowed. She would retreat with her diary in a corner of their room and composed poem after poem. Words of gratitude, toward God and the beauty of nature, sat alongside poems of anger, where she unleashed her bitterness with a childlike abandon. In those days, it was the only thing that brought a sense of calm to her life; a tranquil oasis in a chaotic world.
She recalled how one day he snatched the diary out of her hands and read it out loud to a bunch of his unholy friends. He read poem after poem, his beer-blurred voice a comical imitation of hers, while the mocking laughter and jeering of the crowd filled the room.
That day, the true meaning of hatred struck her like a blow; sharp and bitter. Yet, strangely, it also became the day she vowed never to stop writing. Months later he finally left for good. But contrary to his godless attempts to crush her spirit, his attitude had only strengthened her resolve to become an artist. A writer, capable of weaving together the agony and aspiration of humanity, whose words were a testament to a wounded spirit seeking solace in her faith and the certainty of a brighter tomorrow. Years of struggles followed, but she persevered.
She remembered the thrill of seeing her pen name, ‘Mea N. Brooks’ printed on the cover of her first published book.
“Mean,” he had called her. Now the world called her brilliant.
Her literary achievements included three novels and five celebrated poetry books. Recently she had released her new poetry collection ‘From Mean to Mane’ containing poems that described her search for God, culminating in finding relief in the arms of the Lion of Judah.
And now she had to face … that man… one last time?
Yes, she had to. God required it of her. Let not the sun go down upon your wrath. She would keep it short. Just a quick look, a word of comfort, and nothing more.
Eleanore stopped before the large revolving doors of the local hospital and swallowed hard. An ambulance, lights flashing and siren screaming, sped past, skidding to a stop in front of a foreboding, dark building marked with the word “Emergency.” Hospitals were among the things she hated, with their strange mixture of the sharp, clean scent of antiseptic and the pervasive smell of illness and suffering.
Father was here somewhere, fragile and fading. Just another body behind a white curtain.
She walked up to the information desk. “I am here to see Thaddeus James.”
A young girl smiled at her briefly, studied her computer and said, “Take the elevator. Third floor to your right. Room 23.”
Each step felt heavy, as if her feet were made of lead, but she found it without trouble.
And there he was… propped up to a crumpled pillow staring into nothing. The beeping and zooming machines, coupled with his deep-set eyes and pallid complexion, made it obvious he was living on borrowed time.
“Daddy?” she said as she entered. “I came to say goodbye.”
He looked up. Did he even know who she was?
Silence hung between them; his eyes showed no recognition. At last, he moved his shoulders and mumbled barely audible: “Nurse, would you do something for me?”
Nurse?
Clearly, he was gone, but she decided she may as well play along. “Yes, Mister James. What can I do?”
A tiny spark of light appeared in his sunken eyes. “Somewhere, I have a daughter, nurse. Her name is Eleanore and we lost contact. My fault. Can you give her something from me?”
Eleanore froze. “Y-Yes, Mister James. What is it?”
With great difficulty he pointed a trembling finger to the night table next to his bed. “My daughter loved poetry. Can you give her that book? It changed my life and I think it may be a comfort to her as well.”
Eleanore’s eyes followed her father’s finger and rested on a poetry book. A book she knew so well. The title read “From Mean to Mane,” written by Mea N. Brooks.
What?
She wanted to stay angry. She had every right to. But the sight of him, fragile and clinging to the one thing she had poured her soul into… it pierced her defences. She could not hold back her tears. She walked over to her father, gently put her arms around him and kissed him on the forehead.
The book lay between them as a testimony to the pain, the past and her poetry. “I forgive you, father,” she said. “I really do.”
____