Three simple words , without knowing the context, have endless implications/applications. A simple accidental bump into someone, if you interrupt someone, a common courtesy, These type of apologies are typically immediate. The phrase is a polite gesture allowing us to coexist in a somewhat civil society. Making amends can also vary culturally. For example, in Japan the word for sorry is “gomen”. If you are at fault in a car accident, even before judgement and damages are awarded, you are culturally expected to offer what is referred to as “gomen money”. Those familiar with the Far East understand that “saving face”, a karma centered ideology, yields a population of humility and tolerance. I admire the Japanese tact that it in a sense, requires a time of reflection as well as setting the stage for the more western ideology of forgiveness.
Humility and forgiveness go hand in hand I have often wondered if it is possible to forgive without an apology. Additionally, must you forgive when an apology is given. For me I believe the answer is simple. If the apology is sincere, it makes it easy to forgive. However, If insincerity is present does the apology mean anything? I remember when I was around 10, being full of myself, sharing with my Dad Tony, how someone had wronged me and the next day she had apologized to me. I smugly shared, “I told her I didn’t accept her apology”. He immediately scolded me and made it clear that if someone makes the effort to apologize, you damn well better accept it. Looking back, my not wanting to accept the apology was a lapse in judgment in the form of wanting to hurt, those that hurt me. The apology and her taking ownership was the key to breaking the cycle of vengeance and arrogance. We are human, as the Bible says in Matthew 5 23:25, if you come to the altar with a gift but have conflict in your heart with your brother, leave immediately and go to your accuser so that you may resolve the conflict, and then once again return to the altar with a clear heart.
If an apology never comes? That’s where forgiveness in order for you to move forward is so crucial.
Margie!!! As I type that name I want to scream! No words can describe the level of terror this woman woman inflicted on us 3 kids.
Dad still had a heroin monkey on his back, not much food in the house, lots of parties, and cold pizza for breakfast. On our coffee table stood a jackass cigarette dispenser. When it’s tail was lifted, a “smoke”would slide out of its butt.
The dirt streets and the alleyways were lined with metal trash cans where my older brother would find himself looking for food on his way to school in the morning.
Word Count =100
This is taken from a story named “Margie” The entire story can be found Here.
Written for our gracious host Rochelle Wisoffs “Friday Fictioneers” a 100 word photo prompt challenge. To see other stories based on the photo prompt, click Here
Summer days fishing for rainbow trout, wading through a snow melt creek of British Columbia with my older brother Danny,….those days could never be long enough.
Our hearts would flutter as we hiked into the trees toward the creek. As the sun warmed the trees you could smell the sweetness of pine sap and hear the dry grass and twigs snap under your feet. At times snow stubbornly hung on in the shade.
As we stepped into the water for the first crossing of a pool, I could feel the icy water flood through the eyelets of Converse Allstars, it took my breath away. I could feel life’s challenges melt away in the purity of that pristine snow melt creek water that was Mill Creek.
Working our way through the pools of crystal clear water, we would dip our lines in, the shadows in the rocks would come alive . The small trout would flash in the sun as you felt that exhilarating tug of your first bite.
This is a portion of one of my favorite stories called “A Creek Runs through It”. Submitted to Flash Fiction for aspiring writers. The entire story can be found by clicking here. Peace to you.
I don’t often Reblog but look to Carol A. Hand as somewhat of a blogosphere elder. Here is a piece that talked to as well as challenged my inner being to let light into the box that the world tends to push us into. Thanks Carol and Cynthia Renee Donner. Peace
What if we wondered what was hijacking our emotions,
and holding us in tightly wrapped boxes of fear, shame, anger and distrust
sealed by corporate satisfaction and greed;
as we’re fed from the roots of oppression.
Where it’s too dark to see truth,
amidst the noise of lies and deception
that relentlessly deprive and control thoughts,
what if we just started wondering?
Nails clicking waiting. Joelle’s heavily lipsticked full crimson lips stuck together, slowly separating as her jaw dropped. Her warm breath gently billowed into the cool sea air. Finally he had arrived. The loud exhaust of the dilapidated truck deflected and echoed against the stone arch. Turning off the ignition, the engine sputtered on, ending with a small backfire. Not being of similar pedigree, it was obnoxious incidents and sounds like this,in her world would be deemed uncouth but made him all the more interesting.
He sat in the driver’s seat looking at Joelle with a crooked grin. His thin lips quickly pulled back to a display a toothy smile. He reached with his right hand to the outside handle, unlatched his door and stepped out. She had been waiting two long years for his return. Now he was only feet away and it was if she were standing in clay unable to move. He moved towards her, seeing her shiver, removed his woollen dress uniform coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. With his right hand he lowered the tailgate. They sat down looking off into the ocean as they had so years before. He held her close saying, “I told you I’d be back”. She didn’t say a word but took a long deep breath as if to breathe him in. As the wind picked up, his pinned up left sleeve flapped in the breeze reminding him of what he had left on the battlefield. “I told you I’d be back”, he whispered.
[Paris, 1880] As if in a trance, he starred at the silhouette of his adult tricycle, eating his dinner of roast lamb , mint sauce and boiled potatoes with farina pudding for dessert. Alphonse Pénaud pushed back from the table, retiring to his study. In a small blue coffin, he gently placed his life’s work. He knew he could fly, his disgruntled investors thought otherwise. He kicked the stool, the noose tightened.
[Dayton1882]Welcomed home Milton Wright returns from his trip abroad. A small blue coffin under his arm. Father! What is it? Settle down Orrville!, Wait for your brother.
Written for our wonderful host Rochelle Wiscoff’s Friday Fictioneers thank you Rochelle. 100 words based on the photo prompt at the top of the page.
This story is a tribute to Alphonse Pénaud, who, according to history, made great advances in aeronautical design. It is said that the Wright brothers were inspired by a rubber band driven helicopter designed by Pénaud. Given to them by their father. Tragically, he died by his own hand suffering from depression. Some reports cite that his drawings were placed in a blue coffin before suicide. Peace and thank you Mr. Pénaud.