way I didn't. I suppose I more did than didn't. But a part of me desperately wanted to believe I was at least partly innocent, that I'd been tricked by what people said and by the fact it was legal and supposed to be a 'woman's right.'
And then an even more startling thought came to me. The woman who committed adultery knew what she was doing, but Jesus still forgave her. It was amazing and impossible for him to do this of course, but he still did it. So even if I DID know what I was doing, he still wanted to forgive me. So maybe the question of whether I killed Jonathon knowingly didn't make any difference to forgiveness at all. All that mattered was to forgive.
That night was the first time in a long time I prayed. And in a way, it was my first real prayer ever, since all the prayers I'd ever said before were just spouted off without thinking. This time I prayed with real intent. I had a purpose. It was a simple prayer, really. All I said was, "God, thank you for Jesus. Thank you for how kind and forgiving he was. I wish he was here now. He would know what to do to help me. He always seemed to know what to say to people who were hurting and in pain, like I am."
That night I had another dream. It wasn't like the others. In this dream I was at the abortion clinic. But this time, instead of being the awful mother who was about to kill her child, somehow I knew I was the baby. Somehow I knew that terrible suction machine that would shred me to pieces was about to end my life. I cried out in fear and tried to cover my face with my eyes. But when I took my hands away, the clinic was gone and I found myself looking at Mom, lying in bed at home. Jonathon was floating in the air above her. "Kate's gone," I heard Mom say again, like she'd said so many times over the last few months while I sat next to her. "I killed her."
And then I totally lost control. "Kate's not gone!" I screamed at her. "I'm still right here! I didn't die! Don't you understand! I should have died--I wish I had--but I didn't. It's not your fault. It's not! It's not! I forgive you! I know you didn't really mean it! But even if you had, I forgive you! I forgive you!"
And then I was crying and sobbing all over again. And when you cry in a dream, unlike anything else you do in a dream, it seems to happen in the real world too. I know, because I woke up with my head plastered to a soggy pillow, and I was still balling my eyes out.
And then I understood. The question I'd had before was suddenly answered. I forgave my Mom. Even though she thought she'd done it--even if she HAD done it knowingly--I forgave her. I saw how miserable she was. I didn't want her to be miserable like that. Maybe she'd made a wrong choice, but I didn't want her to suffer forever for it. I loved her and didn't want her to feel that way. That's why Jesus is so forgiving. He does it out of love, since it hurts him to see the ones he loves suffering and miserable. He wants them to put it behind them, and get on with life.
And now I also knew that Jonathon forgave me too, just like I forgave my mom.
May 20
I spent the rest of the night pacing across my little room and crying and beating my pillow and yelling at myself. The nurses must have thought it was normal behavior for someone in my condition, because none of them came in to see what was wrong. They just looked in the little window in my door to make sure I wasn't lying limp and dead on the floor.
I knew what I had to do now, but I didn't want to do it. I knew I had to forgive myself. If God and Jesus could forgive me, and if Jonathon could forgive me, then I needed to forgive me too.
But the trouble was, I didn't want to. I wanted to punish myself some more for what I had done. Somehow, it wasn't enough that I got to live while Jonathon was dead, and I could just waltz away and forgive myself and all would be well. A more severe punishment was certainly needed, and it was my duty to make sure it happened.
"Neither do I condemn thee. Go thy way, and sin no more." The words popped into my addled head unbidden. There was no further punishment in those words. Just forgiveness.
"Blast it all!" I yelled at the top of my wimpy lungs. "I know better! You're wrong, Jesus! I DO need to be condemned! I need to suffer! You're wrong! You're wrong!"
I knew how nonsensical it was to say that, of course. How could a perfect being be wrong? It was utterly impossible. And the ridiculousness of what I was saying overpowered me. By refusing to forgive, I was proclaiming that I was right and God was wrong! I was shouting to the world that I was smarter than God, and that God was a fool for being forgiving.
And like my Dad said, it's never wise to call God a fool.
I suddenly dropped to my knees and started sobbing over and over, "God forgive me! God forgive me! God forgive! I am SO sorry for what I did!" I continued like that for some time, wailing and twitching like I'd gone mad while continuing to repeat the same words. I wasn't sure I could forgive myself just yet, but I needed to ask God to forgive me. I knew he'd do it too, from the scriptures I'd read. But I needed to ask anyway.
Then suddenly another one of those dratted scriptures I'd read suddenly popped into my head. "For if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will God forgive your trespasses." His forgiveness depended on mine! He could not fully forgive me until I forgave myself! Until I did, my own determination to be punished blocked out his forgiveness. So I had to do it. I had to forgive the most unforgivable, disgusting, worthless person I'd ever known. I had to forgive ME.
I had never known self forgiveness would be so hard. What an agony. I beat my head on the padded wall. I slammed my fist painfully into my palm. I started swearing a blue streak, using every foul word I'd ever heard. If my mother had been there (before she lost her mind) she would have fainted. But I still knew I had to forgive myself. I had to do it.
I was fighting a phantom. I was fighting no one other than myself. I loathed myself, yet I was expected to forgive myself. I just couldn't do it! I just couldn't! Not after what I'd done to Jonathon.
The image of my dream came back into my mind. I heard myself yelling to my Mom once again. "I forgive you! I know you didn't really mean it! But even if you had, I forgive you! I forgive you!" And I knew Jonathon felt the same way. If even the murdered Jonathon could forgive me, why could I not forgive myself? If even Jesus could forgive me although he had to suffer all the tremendous pain for what I had done, why couldn't I forgive myself?
It went on like that for hours. I bashed my head against the padded wall so many times I was starting to get dizzy. I bit my hand, leaving a mark. I yanked on my hair until I'd pulled some of it out. But I knew that no matter what stupid, childish thing like that I did, I still had to face up and forgive myself.
And so, I finally did. Or rather, I tried. I just slumped on the floor and started saying over and over, "I forgive myself. I forgive myself. I forgive myself." It did no good at all, and the reason was obvious. I didn't mean a word of it. It took more than just words. It had to come from my heart. This was not something I could pretend away. I could not be a hypocrite and spout a few syllables and have all be well. I had to mean it with all my soul. And until I did mean it, the suffering would continue, even if it went on for years and years.
And then I realized with a start that by not forgiving I was making what Jesus suffered even worse. I was adding to his pain, by adding the pain of unforgiveness. My lack of forgiveness was a new evil that just caused more hurt. By refusing to forgive ME, I was making an already horrible sin even worse.
Sometime toward morning, it happened. At some undefined moment I finally opened up my heart and gave myself a second chance. I finally acknowledged that I'd done bad--really bad--but was forgiving myself for it anyway. And this time, I really meant it. I meant it with all my heart and soul.
And I kept repeating it over and over and over. "I forgive myself. I forgive myself. I forgive myself." Only this time, I meant what I was saying. And like a cool breeze takes the heat off a hot parking lot, the horror and loathing and anger and self-hatred I'd been feeling started to lift. It didn't happ
en instantly, but slowly it started to lift.
And then, because I was so exhausted from my all-night antics, I fell into a deep sleep. There was a smile on my face while I slept. Because in my dreams I once again saw Jonathon. Like always he was there, looking at me. But this time there was a difference. There were no abortion knives anywhere to be seen. For the first time I was not angry, or wracked with horrible guilt and self hatred. For the first time I did not yell for him to stop staring at me, or try to run away from him.
And for the very first time in any of my dreams, Jonathon smiled at me.
May 21
I thought my battle with forgiveness was over after that horrible night. I could not have been more wrong. Although I woke up with a more wonderful feeling of peace and happiness than I had felt in a very long time, by breakfast time things had somehow changed. The nurse brought me some pancakes and eggs, and the habitual thought that I regularly punished myself with every morning suddenly jumped unbidden into my mind. "I don't deserve to eat. I killed Jonathon." And in my heart I meant every word of it.
I yelled a profanity, startling the poor nurse. But in this place she was used to such behavior, and just smiled while she set