When hate begets grace

A funny thing happened when I got engaged last weekend (cue the squeals!):

I was consumed with so much joy at the thought of spending the rest of my life with a man I’m crazy about (and get this guys, he actually feels the same!) that I forgot to be bitter for the rest of the weekend.

You see, the engagement happened during the 6-year anniversary of being assaulted; the 3-year anniversary of ending the abusive relationship in which that assault occurred; and the 11-year anniversary of when a friend of mine committed suicide. So needless to say, the first few weeks of springtime are not typically joyous for me. In fact, I dread them, for all the memories that come up.

And then – and then! – Fred Phelps, the legendary patriarch of the hate-filled Westboro Baptist “church” passed away. So I’ve been reading up on articles that keep cropping up on Facebook about it, and it seems my internet friends’ reactions fall almost evenly in two separate camps: those who want to piss on Fred’s grave and protest his funeral, and those who insist on extending forgiveness and the hope of salvation to a very, very lost individual.

I, like many Christians, am not without bitterness towards people like Phelps: people who make me ashamed to identify as “Christian” for all the ways that word has been abused. Still, this man was someone’s father, grandfather, brother, husband…and it saddens me that it’s not obvious to more people how protesting his funeral isn’t justice; it’s only sinking to his level of depravity. I find myself increasingly inspired by people who are choosing to extend grace and mercy on his behalf.

But I can’t have those thoughts about Fred without doing some soul-searching about my feelings towards the man who wronged me. I’ve wished for bad things to happen to him. I’ve wished for the chance to humiliate him. But in the same way protesting Fred’s funeral won’t undo the emotional damage caused by holding up signs saying “God Hates Fags,” wishing terrible things on my abuser doesn’t undo what he did. And it certainly doesn’t make me a happier, joy-filled person.

It’s giving him permission to live rent-free inside my head. And there’s something about the counter-protests like this one, plus getting engaged, that makes me think “Ain’t nobody got time for that.”

It’s time to start living. Time to accept that the past can’t be undone, and the memories may still sting, but they don’t define me or determine the happiness I can choose to feel. Time to start planning my wedding!