One day during Lent, I was giving a talk at a parish about sin and forgiveness. After the talk, a guy named Seamus came up to me. He was about 80 years old, a first-generation American whose parents had come from Ireland. Seamus told me, “I wish I’d heard that talk 65 years ago.” I asked why, and he explained:
When I was 15 years old, my brother John was always beating me up. I told my parents, and my father said I’ve got to toughen up. My mother had eight kids and was trying to work two jobs, so she had no time to pay attention to me crying. I kept telling my brother to stop, but he was older and a lot bigger and stronger than I was. So one day I said, “I’ve had it.” I had been beaten up again and felt humiliated. I left the house in tears, and I never came back. I talked to my parents and to my other siblings, but from that day I never spoke a word to my brother.
Well, about a month ago, my sister called me and said I ought to go see John. He’s in the hospital dying of cancer. So I was going back and forth. I didn’t know what to do. I thought, OK, I’ll go see him, and then I pulled back: If I go there, he’ll just insult me again. I can’t face that humiliation. I’m not going. I go back and forth, back and forth for three or four days. Finally I go to the hospital. I arrive at my brother’s room, and he’s not there. He had died a few hours before.
I wish I had not been so unwilling to forgive. I wish I could’ve put the relationship ahead of my hurt. I’ve been carrying the burden around my entire life, and it would have been the time for me to be free of this anger toward my brother. But I’m still carrying it today because I never got to talk to him. I’ve gone to confession and been absolved, but I still have the feeling.
Seamus’s is a cautionary tale.
STEVE POPE, theology professor at Boston College.