When I was little, I had a poetry album, that family and friends wrote in. I suspect now that everything after page one was there just to ensure that I would preserve the little booklet. On page one, my grandfather wrote a Dutch rhyme of his own devising. Roughly translated with a little help from AI and some rewriting by me:
Just like every other, I wish you a life full of joy and sunlit skies,
Although, my girl, of course I know, life won’t grant such paradise.
For just like every other, sorrow will come your way,
Yet it will be bearable when you look to Christ each day.
You’re young and think, “Oh Grandpa’s just scribbling here,”
But one day you will see, that what I wrote was true, my dear.
I cherish this, and I know it by heart. I will not post the original Dutch version here, it is too precious to me.
When I was a kid, I didn’t understand why my grandfather would write that he expected me not to take his message seriously. It confused me. I was a studious child, I wanted to understand the world. None of it made sense to me. In hindsight, he probably just wanted to find a rhyme for “my dear”. Or maybe he thought children didn’t pay attention much. I did. I paid attention to everything. And it didn’t make sense. I had no reason to disbelieve my grandfather, yet he expected me to, that confused me. School didn’t make sense. I was expected to submit to people who didn’t seem to know what they were doing. The domestic violence I grew up in didn’t make sense. Why would anyone treat another person that way. The bullying. The braces. Having my tonsils removed. Why no adult would allow me to cry or be angry when I was hurt, didn’t make sense. I protested the way I was treated at first, but eventually, under the onslaught of violence, I stopped protesting. My one and only question, during all my childhood, that I silently held on to, was: Why? Why do people act the way they do?
But I never went on to study psychology. And I’m glad I didn’t. I did seek therapy, but from the client’s chair I ended up learning a lot more than the therapists I encountered. Including that most of them really cannot hear their clients. Their minds are closed. I found the Whys and Whyfors on my own. It took me the first half of my life. I recently turned 41. I understand my Grandfather’s message now.
Jesus himself struggled with the Why and Whyfor. He asks God: “Really? Do I have to go through this ordeal? Really?? Please, no.” He prayed, and tried to think what he could do to avert his fate, I’m sure. When he found that it was inevitable, he eventually surrendered. Not because it was just, or happy, or wholesome. But because it was the natural route his life was going to take. There was no preventing it, given the momentum his life already had. He found that he didn’t have unlimited free will: He prophesied that he couldn’t avert his impending death at the hands of humanity. What he found that he did have, is free will in how he would take it. He chose.
I have made decisions in my life. I didn’t shrink back. For better or worse, I did the best I could and I chose. However, I also failed to choose, at key moments. I was taught at home, in school and in the religious community I grew up in, that I should always defer to someone else, and if I couldn’t find an ally, I’d better not pursue whatever I was going to do. I had my share of weird gut feelings and thoughts that I can at best call premonitions. When the big test came, I failed to listen to the signals I received. A premonition that I had in my teens, came true. I nearly died. I believe that a part of us knows all sides of each issue, and, given that we tend to act in certain ways, knows how things are likely to turn out. The more rigid our habits, the more sure the course we’ll take. Our freedom lies in our attitude. In our attempt to wake up and see the truth, and make peace with the truth. No more, no less. I wasn’t free to act, back then. I was covered head to toe in programming. I am trying to deprogram myself. It is a long road.
Humanity commits atrocities every day. I don’t mean war, pollution or politics. I mean torturing children to make them look pretty. I mean removing tonsils rather than figuring out why this check engine light is burning. I mean teachers telling children that they can ask any question they like, then getting upset when the child is three chapters ahead of them. I mean therapists who get upset when the client cries. I meant the daily callousness and meanness of people who don’t realize that the pain will grow up with the child.
Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.
I also understand why people do what they do, including myself. That each one of us has our own history, or own momentum, our particular blend of blindness instilled by institutions. But understanding why doesn’t make it right. A wrong is a wrong, even if you understand why it was done. For the individual, there is little you can do about those things, except to live as best as you can and to accept that you cannot control the final outcome of your deeds. What I’m trying to fix is my attitude, with Jesus as my example. Just like my grandfather foretold.