The year my daughter Lauren became a bat mitzvah, she gave me a gift I will never forget. She taught me how to forgive.
Anna and I were more than sisters, better than best friends. We were the closest of confidantes all through college. She carried my books and helped me up icy steps when I broke my ankle in our senior year. I came back from Israel to be the maid of honor at her wedding.
Perhaps I should have detected the early warning signs of a friendship going bad. But since I wasn’t inclined to doubt Anna’s motives, I justified her actions even when they hurt my feelings. Like the night she forgot about my surprise birthday party because she was with her boyfriend. Or the time I was in New York City for a visit but she didn’t make time to see me.
We both wanted children desperately, and I was the first one to have a baby. She promised to come for a visit, to see my son and help out. I was so in love with little Josh that as the days passed into weeks, I barely noticed she hadn’t called or written. Then I went back to work.
It was hard to accept that she hadn’t contacted me during those first few months of motherhood. By the time Josh started to crawl, I knew she never would. I was hurt and I was mad, so I did what any postpartum mother would do – I lost it.
“Why haven’t you called me?” I practically screamed into the phone. “Why haven’t you come to see the baby?”
Her answer cut me to the core.
“I just don’t want to get into it right now. I have a lot going on at work and can’t deal with our relationship.”
The phone went dead and so did my heart. The friendship of a lifetime was over.
For more than 15 years I tried to find a way to forgive her, to make some sense out of what she did to me. No matter how hard I tried, how much I prayed, I couldn’t let go of the pain. I talked about it with my friends, my family, my therapist, but nothing I did made me feel any better.
Then my daughter confronted me about a week before her bat mitzvah.
“You should just call her up, you know,” she began, as if we had been deep in conversation.
“Who?” I asked, thinking she meant my flaky cousin who hadn’t sent the RSVP back yet.
“Your used-to-be best friend, Anna. You should just call her and ask her why she was so mean to you. Maybe she was in trouble, or really sad or confused and couldn’t talk about it then. I bet she even feels sorry.”
I shook my head. “No, honey. That’s over and done with. If my friendship meant anything to her, she would have called years ago to explain.”
“Well, I still think you should do it. You keep feeling bad, and it won’t go away until you do something.”
Sage advice from my not-yet-13-year-old, which, after much hesitation, I decided to follow. With trembling hands, I dialed Anna’s number and took a deep breath when I heard her voice. Stumbling over my words, I told her that I wanted to resolve what had happened between us so many years ago. She couldn’t talk about it but told me she would write.
A week later I received three handwritten pages from Anna, who poured out her heart on a legal pad. She pleaded with me to understand why she had been unable to talk about it all these years and then asked for my forgiveness. It was what I needed to finally let go. And, finally, I did.
It seems my daughter intuitively understood a very Jewish concept: that when someone hurts you, you have to actually do something in order to forgive. But letting go – of past hurts, injuries and wrongs – is one of the toughest emotional challenges to hurdle.
Jewish tradition teaches that when someone has injured you – physically, emotionally or financially – he or she is required to ask for your forgiveness. If not, then even God cannot forgive that person. But when someone who has harmed you sincerely asks your forgiveness, Jewish law wants you to forgive, and to do it wholeheartedly.
There is much to gain, psychologically and spiritually, when we let go of past injuries. It frees up the energy we use to stay angry or disappointed for more positive things that can bring us happiness, fulfillment and love. And Judaism assures us that if we show compassion to those who offend us, God will show compassion to us when we offend Him.
Our sages answered the question “Whose sin is forgiven?” with this bit of wisdom: “The sin of one who forgives sins committed against him (or herself) is the sin that will be forgiven.”
Amy Hirshberg Lederman is an award-winning author, nationally syndicated columnist, Jewish educator, public speaker and attorney.
