Until last year, my middle sister and I did not get along. We spent our childhood fighting – literally – like cats and dogs. Once we outgrew fistfights, we engaged in something more sinister: seething sibling rivalry and one-up-ness. Our dislike for each other permeated all family gatherings and get-togethers. I hated her so much that I could barely stand to look at her. Over the years, I thought about making peace with her, but would never follow through, thinking that perhaps that ship had sailed.
Just before Christmas last year, however, I got this feeling in my soul that it was time to bury the hatchet once and for all (and, hopefully, not in each other’s backs). And the more I tried to shake it off, the more the feeling persisted. I went to the bookstore and a book on forgiveness practically jumped in my hand. “I got it,” I whispered to God. “I will do this.”
I read the book and did the forgiveness exercises. I imagined myself speaking with my sister and magnanimously telling her that I forgave her for all her transgressions.
I would pick up the phone to call her and put it back down. Eventually, I settled on writing her a letter. In the letter, I spoke about all the things that bothered me about her: her nosiness, her loudness, her attitude. But then other things poured out: how I admired her work ethic, her take-no-crap stance in life, and how everyone respected her. Memories of our childhood in Honduras came flooding back. I remembered that we were inseparable. Then other thoughts started to creep in: how she was my grandmother’s favorite (no small feat, considering that my grandmother was caring for about 20 grandchildren at the time). And how, when we came to the States and my father was drinking himself into oblivion half the time, she was the only one who could make him smile. I recalled how my mother always said that she, my sister, was most like her: witty, sharp, a real firecracker.
And suddenly a realization dawned on me. My job was not to forgive my sister for everything she had done to me. She had done nothing but be herself. My job was to forgive myself! I had been petty and jealous. All these years, I had envied her for having the things that I felt I lacked: love from our grandmother when our parents weren’t around; a way around my father’s emotional unavailability; and approval from our mother.
I took the letter and put it in a drawer. Then I called my sister for the first time in my adult life. Things between us didn’t thaw immediately, but with practice we have learned to be sisters again. My sister now calls me just to chat. Sometimes, we spend two hours on the phone. We go out to eat and hang out with our kids at the park. She has learned to call on me for emotional support when she needs it. I call her to find out how to add features to my cell phone. You know what? It’s nice to have my sister back.
Just before Christmas last year, however, I got this feeling in my soul that it was time to bury the hatchet once and for all (and, hopefully, not in each other’s backs). And the more I tried to shake it off, the more the feeling persisted. I went to the bookstore and a book on forgiveness practically jumped in my hand. “I got it,” I whispered to God. “I will do this.”
I read the book and did the forgiveness exercises. I imagined myself speaking with my sister and magnanimously telling her that I forgave her for all her transgressions.
I would pick up the phone to call her and put it back down. Eventually, I settled on writing her a letter. In the letter, I spoke about all the things that bothered me about her: her nosiness, her loudness, her attitude. But then other things poured out: how I admired her work ethic, her take-no-crap stance in life, and how everyone respected her. Memories of our childhood in Honduras came flooding back. I remembered that we were inseparable. Then other thoughts started to creep in: how she was my grandmother’s favorite (no small feat, considering that my grandmother was caring for about 20 grandchildren at the time). And how, when we came to the States and my father was drinking himself into oblivion half the time, she was the only one who could make him smile. I recalled how my mother always said that she, my sister, was most like her: witty, sharp, a real firecracker.
And suddenly a realization dawned on me. My job was not to forgive my sister for everything she had done to me. She had done nothing but be herself. My job was to forgive myself! I had been petty and jealous. All these years, I had envied her for having the things that I felt I lacked: love from our grandmother when our parents weren’t around; a way around my father’s emotional unavailability; and approval from our mother.
I took the letter and put it in a drawer. Then I called my sister for the first time in my adult life. Things between us didn’t thaw immediately, but with practice we have learned to be sisters again. My sister now calls me just to chat. Sometimes, we spend two hours on the phone. We go out to eat and hang out with our kids at the park. She has learned to call on me for emotional support when she needs it. I call her to find out how to add features to my cell phone. You know what? It’s nice to have my sister back.
2 comments:
This is a great story and a lesson we can all appreciate. Once we begin to examine ourselves suddenly the attention of those we are at odds with lessons and the truth about us is revealed.
LMD:
This was great. As it has been said before, we must first learn to forgive ourself before we can forgive others. It all starts with one self.
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