Confession

That was the house. Right there. He pulled up to the curb and shut off the car. It was suddenly very quiet. He looked at the house again.

When he'd stepped into the pastor's office, he'd known it was a desperate attempt. Maybe he'd been hoping for a reasonable, neutral adult to talk sense to him, to tell him he didn't have to do it. And that's basically what the pastor had said. "We all make mistakes--it's human. There's no point in beating ourselves up over it. Jesus told us not to judge. And I think we especially need to remember that when we start judging ourselves. We do many things for reasons we don't fully understand and can't always control. Even Paul said, 'I do not do what I want, but do the very thing I hate.'" The pastor paused. "There are just some times when it's not helpful to talk about 'sin,' or 'right and wrong.' I think your situation is one of those times. What could you have done, under the circumstances? I think it's best to just look at this in a non-judgmental way and work on healing your pain and confusion, and restoring your self-confidence."

He'd stared at the pastor across the large desk. "Are you trying to tell me I didn't do anything wrong?" "I just don't think we need to talk about anyone being 'wrong.' You were hurt by this too, and..." "But I was wrong! Don't tell me I wasn't--you weren't there. I didn't come here for you to make me into some kind of victim. I came here to..." What? To escape? Then why did he get so angry, when the pastor was providing the easy way out? "I'm sorry," he'd said, getting up. "I shouldn't be here. I know what I have to do. Sorry..."

He was pretty sure both her parents were at work now. But he couldn't tell if she was home or not. The car door squeaked as he opened it.

And it was that night again. His romantic, teenage-boy hopes for the evening had ended with the squeak of that door. Both doors had opened suddenly. Then he was hauled out of the car into the darkness and thrown to the ground. Then there was the pain. But he could still heard her cries, even when they were reduced to whimpers. When he stopped struggling, they left him there, but he didn't know if he could get up because he didn't try. He didn't even open his eyes. He didn't need to see because he could hear her, not calling for his help any more, but God's. He kept his eyes closed. It was too dark that night to see.

He made himself get out of the car. Walk up the driveway. Ring the bell. Movement. She was home. Then she was standing in front of him.

He spoke to her through the screen door. "I didn't know if I'd ever see you again." She eyed him nervously and said nothing. "I mean, I assumed you didn't want to see me after what happened. Then you weren't at school and the next thing I hear is that your family moved, so... it seemed like you wanted to start over. Which makes sense. But... I just had to find you and tell you... I'm sorry."

She looked down and then met his eyes again. "It's okay," she said. "I don't mind that you found me. And I don't blame you. You don't have to apologize." "Yes I do, I..." "No--that's all over. I've moved on. For a while, yeah, I was angry at everyone. Including you. But I got some help and realized I needed to forgive, so I could put it behind me. I needed to forgive for myself. So I did. You don't have to apologize. It's over." "But how can you forgive me when you don't even know what I did?" "You took us there. I was worried, but you didn't listen, you insisted, so that's why we were there. But you didn't do it to me. There was nothing you could do--I understand that. I don't blame you. I'm past it." "Nothing I could do," he echoed softly. "But I didn't even try."

"They left me, and I could hear you crying, and I didn't move. I didn't even try to move. They were on you and I just laid there and told myself it wasn't happening. Laid there until your parents found us--and all that time you were alone. While I hid from it all! You were all alone and I should have gone to you but I didn't! How could you know that? How could you forgive that?" She'd been staring at him, frowning, then began shaking her head. "Don't. Please..." "I'm so sorry," he said, "I should have done something. I should have at least tried. I should have gone to you. I'm so sorry." "No--it's over. Leave it alone. I don't want to know." She was starting to cry. But she didn't close the door. He thought maybe he should go--he hadn't come here to hurt her. But how could he leave her like this? He looked at her wet eyes through the screen and searched for words.

Finally he said, "You didn't do anything wrong. You know that, right?" She sobbed. He went on, "It was them. And me. You didn't do anything wrong." "Didn't I?" she cried. "How do you know what I did? You weren't there--you left me alone, remember?" She was crying freely now, trying to catch her breath between sobs. He stared, speechless. "You want to know what I did, lying there alone, bleeding, in the dark? I asked why the hell God stood there and watched. I didn't care that you didn't do anything. Why didn't God do something? I didn't even hate those animals that attacked me--I hated God. He was the one who was supposed to love me. How could he see them doing that to me and not do anything?"

"I don't know." It was all he could say. When he looked up, her face was angry, demanding. "Then how can you come over here talking about right and wrong and apologizing? We're not the ones who should be apologizing. God should be apologizing--to us!"

He was quiet, with her fiery eyes on him. Then he said, softly, "You can ask him for an apology. But I don't think you'll get the kind of answer you want." She looked away, but she was still listening. "Look," he said, "I came over here to ask for forgiveness. Because I don't want to lose you. And telling the truth and being forgiven and changing is how we stay together. But we can't be together if we're apart from God. I don't know why God let you get hurt--but he showed me that I was wrong. So I'm here. I'm sorry. I don't want to lose you." 

She sniffed. Then wiped her eyes and sniffed again. "Okay... I forgive you." She looked at him quickly and offered a little smile. "But if you're going to say that means God will forgive me too," her eyes flared, "I'm not asking. Not yet." She took a long, slow breath. "But thanks. I don't want to lose you either." The screen door opened and she stepped out to give him a hug. Then she went back inside. She glanced at him again briefly before gently closing the door.