Friday, October 5, 2012

When two wrongs make a right.

You know the saying.
Two wrongs don't make a right. 

It may be true, but when I think of my family...our story...I find the exact opposite to be true. 

Coming from a shame-based culture, we don't often tell the story of our family, which is a shame to me because, while it's a story of brokenness, hurt and rebellion, it is also the story of confession, forgiveness and reconciliation. Nothing short of a miracle. 

I had first heard about divorce in the fourth grade. A girl transfered to our private, Catholic school and her parents were divorced. By sixth grade, I felt like the oddball, having parents who were still married. I would sit down to our nightly dinners with tween-attitude scoffing at our family tradition. Just one year and many tears later, those memories would feel a lifetime ago. 

When my parents divorced, I was entering the seventh grade. It was a year that triggered a number of rebellious years to come. Let's just say that floating between three homes (mine, my mom's and my aunt's) didn't make for the most stable upbringing. But I understand, in times like these you do what you can to survive. 

There are many reasons for "what happened", as we call it in our family. At the time, much blame was cast. Wrongs done. Now, with hindsight and wisdom, we all realize the various parts we played. 

In any case, the result? We were no longer a family, we were now a product of 'divorce'. Though my parents have been remarried 22 years, we've still got the effects of divorce woven into our family, like a thread of blue in a tapestry of golden yellow. Sometimes, you can't tell it's there until you look up close. 

Now you might be wondering how my parents got remarried to each other. That's where my wrong comes in. During my 9th grade year of school, my rebellion took the form of shoplifting. I'd like to think I was just really rebellious, but I did it for acceptance and I wasn't even really that good. In an act of providence, I got arrested. Busted with a pair of CK jeans and a rayon dress shirt. 

Somehow I managed to convince the 'mall cops' to release my co-conspirator and I to our cousin who worked at the mall. (This is where I can see my persuasive skills at work at such a young age.) In fact, I never even told my parents about the debacle... until my court date when I realized I wasn't getting out of it. 

In a rash attempt of 'coming clean' I told my dad everything. Together, we headed to court. My mom met us there. While I was getting my butt chewed out by a County judge, my parents had their first conversation in four years. There, they agreed on one thing for the first time in years: their wrongs were leading to my wrong. This one agreed truth led to the righting of our family. It led to more civility, which led to more conversations, eventually smiles, dates and the rekindling of a love that had held on to heat like the one coal that won't stop glowing long after the rest of the embers have been put out.

Sometimes all it takes is a spark. 

And a miracle.

Tonight, I'm getting ready to head up to Lee Vining for the weekend.
I'm getting ready to spend a weekend in the beautiful High Sierras.
I'm getting ready to be reunited with the gracious, hospitable, loving community at Community Pres.

But most of all, I'm getting ready to share the story of how once, a long time ago, two wrongs made a right.


Post a Comment

Blogger Template by Delicious Design Studio