"You say [I forgive you] so readily"

another Fiction Stack (TM) takeover

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

I’m so excited to once again bring you an essay inspired by Fiction Stack (TM), this time from a story by the one and only

S.L. Linton

, whose serialized retelling of Beauty and the Beast just wrapped up at the end of April.¹ You can access Under the Roses from the home page of

The Forgotten Library

, under “Planned Serial”.² It was a delightful read from start to finish, and it has quickly earned a place in my heart as a favorite retelling of Beauty and the Beast.

Today’s essay is the fruit of reflection on a line from the finale.

Beatrice (Belle) is talking with the newly-rehumanized Beast³ after all is said and done. After the scene in the forest, he had avoided her for several days, and while his explanation is sound enough, he apologizes for hurting her by handling the situation poorly. This is Beatrice’s reaction:

This line has challenged me, perhaps more than anything else I’ve read in a long time.

Forgiveness is a tricky topic, and is not a habit that comes easily to me. In many ways, I think the Lord knew this would be my struggle and placed people in my life to help me grow past it—

James Dietz

wrote his entire undergraduate research thesis on forgiveness, and even so, I feel like I hardly grasp the true depth and breadth of our call to forgive one another.⁴ Every time we pray the Our Father, we ask the Lord to forgive us our trespasses as we forgive others, but do we really mean that? This is a huge responsibility we are calling down upon ourselves. Do we really understand what that would look like?

Do we treat forgiveness for what it is: an act of the will that doesn’t depend on our feelings or our pride being placated?

I know I certainly don’t.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Without further ado, let’s break this quote down.

[Beatrice] thought about holding it against him. She could stomp off in a huff. Instead, Beatrice said, “I forgive you.”

“You say that so readily.”

“It’s better that I do. If I think about it too much, I might not give it.”

I love this line because it rings true with my own experience of anger—far too often, I make an active choice to remain resentful, although I don’t always frame it as such.⁵ In the moment, when I am feeling hurt or wronged, I neither ask for what I want need nor choose to move on, and in the aftermath, I decide to ruminate or hold a grudge instead of trying to initiate a calm discussion. I just turn the heat down low and let that bad boy simmer for three to four hours. Like a chicken stock of rage. By the time it’s finished, all the flavors have come together to form a cohesive background against which to craft my Explosive Meltdown Soup.

Am I taking this analogy too far?

Probably. But you get the picture.

That being said, I love the way that SL acknowledges Beatrice’s choice in this moment. When we consciously allow ourselves to see anger or resentment as a choice that we’re making—rather than simply an emotional experience to which we are subjected and to which we must react—we’ve taken the first step toward a healthier way of relating to others (and to ourselves).

Because here’s the thing—by many accounts, Beatrice would be “justified” in acting out, storming off in a huff, and withholding forgiveness. She’d made a brave and heroic choice that had saved this man’s life, and his response was to ghost her?? She’d come to believe that he loved her, and she loved him, and he couldn’t even be bothered to send her a few lines explaining that he needed a few days to process??

He deserves a little backlash. He deserves to feel the same way she felt. It would be better for their relationship for him to understand—viscerally—the way he made her feel. Heck, it would be good for him if she stomped off.

These are the kinds of lies we allow ourselves to believe (or, at least, I do) all. the. time. Especially on “hot button” topics (household chores being a prime example) where our thinking has been poisoned infiltrated influenced by rage porn internet culture, we convince ourselves that acting out our anger is a matter of justice, even of mercy. We allow our self-righteousness to dictate our interactions and give free reign to our pride.

We allow fear of further injury to drive out our curiosity and compassion.

What would it look like if we opened conversations with questions instead of accusations? “Hey honey, I’m feeling frustrated by something and would love to talk it through with you to see if I’m reading the situation fairly?” “Hey friend, I think I must have misunderstood you the other day because a comment you made really hurt me—would you be able to explain what you meant?”

I really don’t know if that would help, but I have to think it would.

Because here’s the thing—it’s patently ridiculous to believe that withholding forgiveness and encouraging rumination could possibly be for our good—even on a merely natural level, to say nothing of the spiritual life. Oooooh buddy, it feels good for a while. Satisfying. Substantial. Like something you can sink your teeth into. But in the end, we’re left with nothing, just the dry husk of our half-spent rage and a loop of quasi-intrusive thoughts that we wear like shackles.

With that in mind and inspired by this story, I’ve been trying to consciously say “I forgive you/him/her” as a way of interrupting and calming my angry ruminations. Circumstances don’t always permit me to say it aloud or to the object of my frustration, but I have tried to make an effort to clearly say those words instead of my usual self-righteous internal monologue.⁶

I can’t say it solves the problem immediately. But it does help. It softens my heart significantly. It helps me to avoid thinking too much—thinking about how wronged I am, how right I am, how awful that person was to me. It helps me to avoid thinking myself into a victim mindset, where I am operating from a place of self-righteous self-preservation, regardless of whether or not the situation warrants such a response.

And sometimes, I have to admit, I find myself genuinely unable to say it—it feels impossible; it feels like giving up my power; it feels like letting the other person “win” the fight, even if there was no fight and no winner. This is when I begin to realize that I need take the situation to prayer… or that I need to go to sleep. (Or both?)

If you think you hate everyone, you need to eat.
If you think everyone hates you, you need to sleep.

Let me give you an idea of what I mean when I say that this line and this understanding of the power of verbally offering forgiveness has challenged me more than anything else I’ve read in a long time: I’ve thought about this line every day since I read it, which was *checks calendar* over a month ago. Every day for four and a half weeks, I’ve had at least one opportunity to choose: ruminate or forgive?

I wish I could say that I’ve always chosen forgiveness. Alas, there are deep habits here that need changing. But I can say that I’ve been more aware of the degree to which I have control—and culpability—for the words I speak and the actions I take in anger.

Because here’s the thing—and it’s a hard thing. It’s not a thing I like to admit to myself, but I think it’s an important thing for me to remember:

It doesn’t matter what the other person did.

That’s probably a hot take, but I stand by it.

It does not matter what the other person did (or didn’t do). It doesn’t matter whether or not they acknowledge that they’ve done something wrong or hurtful. It doesn’t matter whether or not they’ve apologized, or whether or not their apology was sincere. Our calling is the same: to choose forgiveness.

Now, before you come at me, I’m not saying that we should allow ourselves to be doormats, or that it’s pointless to engage in discussions about hurtful patterns, or that apologies are unimportant. I have a whole newsletter draft dedicated to the role of punishment in Catholic thought that I’m slowly working on. I don’t believe in endlessly letting people off the hook for their vices or sins or problematic behaviors.

All I’m saying is that my forgiveness is a me thing, just like my anger is a me thing.

I cannot control the actions of others, and the more I try, the more I’ll be disappointed. If I spent my days trying to micromanage James or our daughters into behaving in exactly the way that I think is best, I’d certainly never grow in virtue myself, and I’d probably allow dangerous vices to take root in my heart and in theirs.

All I can control is myself, and while that should definitely include conversations about things that hurt my feelings, it should also (and more importantly) include intentionally choosing to forgive, to let go of anger, and to verbally say (if only to myself), “I forgive them.”

What’s that old saying? Withholding forgiveness is like drinking poison and expecting your enemy to die? Something like that…

Of course forgiving someone doesn’t mean that trust is immediately rebuilt, or that you allow yourself to be walked on in the same way at a later date. That’s not healthy, holy behavior. But having intentionally given forgiveness ahead of time allows us to enter into those often-challenging conversations with grace, compassion, and curiosity, rather than pride, defensiveness, and contempt. Especially on topics where we’ve been thinking about the conversation for a lot longer than the other person, we do ourselves and them an enormous favor by going into the conversation calmly, with a readiness to hold space for whatever their reaction might be.

It’s better that I [say, “I forgive you”]. If I think about it too much, I might not give it.

Would that we could all forgive so readily, rather than risk withholding forgiveness and poisoning ourselves. Would that we could all see so clearly the ways that our pride and our anger blind us to our good.

The quicker we are to say—out loud if possible—“I forgive you,” the healthier we and our marriages and our families will be.

1. My previous Fiction Stack essay, “we learn to love by doing,” remains one of the most-read pieces I’ve ever written!

We learn to love by doing

2. Free through the summer; behind a paywall starting in the fall.

3. Character name redacted for spoilers

4. I’ve written about forgiveness before here, specifically in the context of modeling healthy conflict for our children.

5. An important note here: Throughout this piece, I use the word “anger” to refer to an unhealthy vicious-or-sinful choice, not to the helpful, morally-neutral physiological experience of anger that alerts us to a perceived injustice. I can already hear the comments that, “anger can be a good thing” and “there are situations where it’s just to be angry”—yes, you’re right, and refusing to forgive and choosing to act in/from anger is problematic.

6. This isn’t to say that a disgruntled internal monologue can’t exist within a patient person—I literally have a draft titled, “You can be patient and still have a grumpy internal monologue… I mean, it’s not ideal, but it’s a good start”.