Making Amends

Part of growing up is realizing that you aren’t the center of the universe. Self-interest starts to take a back seat to self-growth. You begin to see outside yourself, outside of your small little world, wanting to share your gifts instead of just honing them. And hopefully you realize how your actions effect others.

It’s quite possible that I am just now starting to grow up, NOT old. In the last couple of years, I have begun to really deal with the things that held me back, and that which I couldn’t let go of. Too much baggage leaves us with one foot in the past. Living in the past only keeps up from living in the present, living life to the fullest. Living for the present allows us to enjoy the journey with less concern for the destination.

My baggage included a massive trunk of regret locked by guilt. As a means of letting much of this go, I have tried to look at the past honestly and accurately, sometimes admitting fault and vowing to learn from those experiences.

More often than not, I have realized that my disappointments don’t need to be assigned blame. They are just a part of life and once re-compartmentalized in my askew brain, they are merely memories I need not lament. And at this point, I wouldn't opt to go back and change anything if I could. My experiences, good or bad, have made me who I am today.

There are though, a few instances that I feel compelled to make amends for my actions. One of which included my younger brother Ray. This regret weighed on me so heavily, that for years I replayed the circumstances in my head over and over, my own form of self torture.

Growing up, my father was fairly strict. And when we were young enough, spanking was the chosen form of discipline used in our home. Now I don’t want to get into a debate about whether parents should spank or not. I happen to believe not, but when I was a kid it was acceptable and I will defend my dad staunchly by saying that he is a great man and he always did what he believed was best.

With that said, I will admit that I had a good healthy fear of spankings, as did my siblings. So much so, that avoidance at all cost reined supreme and consequently we were generally pretty well behaved, at least within earshot of our father.

One absolute commandment in our house (and I hold this one up in my own) was that we were not to touch my father’s tools without permission. Plain and simple and for good reasons that I didn’t grasp until later in life.

But you know how kids are.... they constantly mess with things they shouldn’t and I was no exception. Curiosity, boredom or just believing I might get away with it this once, lead me astray.

When suspicious property damage was discovered because one of us had disregarded the tool-rule, well, my dad came looking for the guilty party. The possible suspects included myself and my two brothers, Rodney, who was six and Ray, just three. Though I was almost nine, and my misdeeds warranting a spanking had diminished to almost nil, I knew I was not completely immune. On top of the fact that, I was actually the one on the wrong side of the law this time.

Even if my dad didn’t say we were going to get a spanking, well, we just assumed. So very early in childhood self-preservation kicked in and I learned to manipulate the truth. Unfortunately, my first go at it when I was three and blamed my infant brother for carving Z-O-O into a bar of soap, wasn’t my best work. But over time to avoid a swat, I polished my skills, becoming what I considered to be quite the accomplished liar.

When my father asked point blank who was responsible, well, I blurted out without hesitation, “Not me!” Rodney and Ray followed suit. Now, believe it or not, I don’t even remember what IT was that I did, I only remember that I was guilty, but I didn’t come clean.

My father knew that even though we all denied involvement, someone was holding out. And he wasn’t giving up that easy.

To my amazement, Rodney offered up a sacrifice. “I saw Ray playing with your hammer yesterday,” he divulged to my father. Whether or not this was true, or was Rod just trying to divert any possible link to him self, is unknown. No one but I knew where blame lay, and this little turn of events worked to my advantage. Poor Ray didn’t even know that he was being set up.

My father with concern etched in his face, turned to Ray, knelt down on one knee and asked “Did you do this, son?”

Ray vehemently declared his innocence over and again. My father was not convinced, and restated the question in several forms, making sure there was complete understanding, and opportunity for admission. I suppose it didn’t help that I chimed in and said I had seen him messing with the hammer too. (That was lie #2...I was on a roll.) But Ray stood strong.

My father wasn’t a tyrant; he was always fair. His goal was to raise us into respectful and honest people. So for one so young, my dad offered another chance. He sat Ray down in a corner and told him, “When I get back from town, if you tell me what you did, you won’t get a spanking.” Otherwise, it was going to be the belt.

I felt awful. Poor little Ray. BUT, I couldn’t possibly change my story at this point, for I knew the consequences would be dire.

In my father’s absence, Rodney and I prevailed upon Ray to just tell Dad that he did it, so he could avoid punishment. For nearly a half hour, we huddled around him on the hardwood floor trying to persuade him. We told him we knew he hadn’t done it, but it was the only way...

When my dad returned, we moved back to safe vantage point. Dread hovering over us; not knowing which way it would go.

Gently my father asked Ray once more if he had done IT. And when finally the smallest little squeak of a ‘yes’ escaped Ray’s lips, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. For both our sakes. And true to his word, my dad did not spank Ray, but he did get a good long talking to.

Now, I know that my own children blame each other for all kinds of things.... who hit who first, who threw what, who made the mess. So either I am raising a bunch of heathens, or this is just a rite of passage as we grow up.

But for whatever reason, I never got over what I had done to my brother. He was so small and helpless, so truthful, and so completely clueless to the ways of the world. Only just recently, did I admit to Ray what I had done. I was compelled to tell him how bad I felt for letting him take the blame, and not saying so sooner.

Do you want to know what was most surprising about finally saying sorry? My brother had no memory whatsoever of that day in the corner. Ray actually wasn‘t surprised by my admission, because he confessed to having resorted to the same tactic a time or two himself. The night I shared this with him, Rodney was there as well. Hours of reminiscing about our memories and admissions produced the greatest laughter, laughter that heals, laughter that forgives, laughter that lets us off the hook.

Personally, I do believe that it is important to take responsibility for our actions, admit when we are wrong and apologize to those we’ve hurt. This step has the power to heal in many directions.

It was ridiculous to wait so long, but I lacked the courage until I had grown up a bit. Waiting just made it harder and heavier. As these things hang upon us, they have the tendency to grow, distort.  Don’t be afraid to say sorry when you should, but learn from it and let it go, so you can get on with living this precious life.