Within the last two years, my capacity for forgiveness has been stretched, challenged and tested. Beyond what I thought I could bear. Beyond what I was sure I could take. By a trinity of people very closest to me, in the most gut-wrenching ways that others might think wasn’t really a big deal – but to me, huge. Mammoth, even.

Contrary to my instincts, my choice has been to “fake it ’til you make it,” smile sweetly, say, “I forgive you.” – and pretend to mean it.

Then I put the issues (and, mentally, the person) in a little box, wrapped the box in pretty tissue paper, put the box into a drawer in a dresser in a mental closet, shut the door and then wallpapered over the door in a lovely Rachel Ashwell Shabby Chic Rose Chintz. My brain closet is fabulous.

In the post-analysis, I’m pretty sure I thought I was forgiving, but as soon as I thought again about the issue the rage and hurt welled back up, which required a little wallpaper paste, maybe even a little spackle and some strong self-reminders that that closet was shut for a very good reason.

Honestly, this is a new way to deal with things for me. Growing up, I fought it out. I grew up yelling, arguing, persuading and pushing to be right – at just about any cost. That’s what I saw, so that’s what I did. Bolstered by my great love of debate, coupled with my Scottish and Cuban ancestry it was woe to any that went toe to toe, or tongue to tongue with me. I would just wear you down. And generally make you cry. And wonder why you were crying. It was productive, wasn’t it? You saw my point, right? Score one for Chelle.

My good friend Kim Dupree told me once about ten years ago, “There is death and life in the tongue” – and for whatever reason in that moment, it stuck with me, and something in me changed. I wanted to BE right with God and not just win, even if it meant admitting I was wrong and changing my mind. God had changed my heart from one of stone to one of flesh.

That’s not to say that I always defer to this heart of flesh. Sometimes my heart of stone reappears, and my tongue of fire takes over. It’s not pretty, and both my girls also have a predisposition to go for the jugular and rip like a Cullen when they feel backed into a corner or passionate about an issue. They’re learning to dial it back, but my younger daughter will make an excellent attorney, and that’s about all I can promise in terms of channeling it.

So, how did I come to the other extreme of complete and total disconnect with the trinity of people that crushed me? Prolonged shock, maybe. I’m no master of psychological issues. Maybe I was finally worn out, and couldn’t fight anymore. I do know that it takes energy to turn off a relationship, but far less than fighting for one in my world. It was easier to move, change my phone numbers and refuse all communication with #1, believe it or not.

Crushing hurts from #2 and #3 came this week, on the heels of a weekend away at Mo Ranch with my daughter’s private Christian school, surrounded by praying friends, hurting kids and a lot of opportunities to see God’s grace. I was there for the kids, but I spent 3 days really, really working out some big stuff and wresting with angels. God outran me. I came back ready to deal with pulling the wallpaper off the door so I could take a look at the mess I’d wrapped up and stuck in there, knowing that I wouldn’t be standing alone at the door. Before that could happen, though, the 2×4 came swinging on Sunday, followed by the Mack Truck on Monday.

I feel oddly peaceful, and a little in shock. I’m checking my extremities and I’m not bleeding… much. One of them I never saw coming, and one of them I did, so one felt like a hurricane I watched on radar headed my way, and one was an earthquake I just need to clean up after. I’m great in a crisis – it’s the long term that I have issues with and the main “angel wrestling” issue is:

NOW WHAT?

My realization this morning was I really don’t know how to forgive. I don’t. I know all the platitudes about unforgiveness being a poison you take hoping the other person will die. I know that it eats me up. I know. I know. I know. I want to take Oscar Wilde’s advice about really bugging your enemies by forgiving them. I do.

But that doesn’t mean I know how to do it. Especially in case #3 where there’s absolutely NO understanding of the hurt caused, that #2 is all about the “get over it” and #1 is just all settled and why stir it all up?

I would LOVE to get out a fresh roll of mental wallpaper, but I know that’s not what God wants for me. He handed me a sledgehammer this weekend and He expects me to use it on the closet. He wants me whole, restored and in a right relationship with him and my trinity. I want to model that for my girls, too. There is death and life in the tongue, but hope deferred makes the heart sick. Fight or flight?

I choose neither.

There has to be some balance in there somewhere, and so that is my prayer. That I can learn to forgive, choosing to forgive daily and walking out and working out my faith. He set me on this path this weekend, and apparently, He thinks I need a nudge to really drive the point home giving me THREE opportunities for learning.

Time for a little remodel, I suppose. Here we go.