Trouble in Bunny Slippers Seating is first come, first serve in the massive auditorium. We find a place large enough for our family - right side, second row, near the front. Truth is, left side, back row, near the exit would be fine with me. I don't wanna be here. People-watching fascinates me. It's amazing what God can do with your basic eyes and ears, nose and chin. A tweak here, a lift there and voila not a single look-alike in the room. It's still ten minutes before the service begins so I settle in casually scanning the growing crowd. A commotion in the rear catches my attention and I turn to see what's going on. Auugghh, no! Not her!  I close my eyes, and sigh out loud. Every time she shows up, I get into trouble. She defines eccentric. A no-nonsense lady she stands head and shoulders above the rest. Behind her she pulls a worn valise with mismatched wheels, perthumpitythump, perthumpitythump, perthumpitythump. Around her neck is an old wool blanket in serious need of repair. Her battle fatigues, the ugliest green I've ever seen, clash loudly with her footwear - purple bunny slippers on super-sized feet. She's a woman with a mission, and she's headed my way. I slouch, frantically trying to hide behind my husband, Rob. Maybe she won't see me. With the demeanor of a surly drill sergeant, she clomps up next to our pew and bellows, "You hidin' from me?" I'm saved from answering as the congregation begins a rousing song of worship. "Scoot over!" she demands above the din. Exactly where I will scoot is a mystery. We're jam-packed shoulder-to-shoulder, end-to-end. Determined to sit beside me, she steps on my toes as she squeezes past, then sandwiches her ample derriere between the kids and me. She stuffs her valise beneath the pew in front, then whomp, with a swish of her hip she pushes me tightly against Rob. Fwam, with a solitary whoosh to the right, my children slide further down the pew. Oomph, she grunts as she settles in oblivious to the stir she's created. She greets me with a brusque, "Mornin, girlfriend!" She is NOT my girlfriend. "Whatcha doin' here?" IF I were acknowledging her presence, I could ask the same. "That good-lookin man of yours talk you into coming?" Silence. "Well DID he????" "Will you please be quiet?" I hiss between clenched teeth. My non-answer is an answer in itself. "I KNEW IT! If you didn't want to come, how come you're here?" Silence. I pray the sermon begins soon so she will hush. During the final worship refrain she nods toward the speaker, "Kinda reminds you of Eddie, duden't he?" How does she do that? Every time I'm wrestling with my heart, she shows up and pins me to the mat. Truth is he does remind me of my ex-husband, Eddie, which is exactly why I don't want to be here. We bow our heads for prayer and she starts squirming. I peek just as she pops a piece of bubble gum into her mouth. Momentarily puzzled over what to do with the wrapper, she hesitates then rolls it into a tight ball, takes aim and launches. With deadly precision it lands in the ear of the man seated directly in front of us. He turns bright red - either from anger or embarrassment, I'm not sure which. If she notices his discomfort, she doesn't let on. She smacks her gum then blows a bubble reeking of garlic. Raising one brow I nod toward the man indicating that an apology is in order. She rolls her eyes, then leans forward and taps him on the shoulder, "Uh, Sorry. Here, want some gum? It tastes better than it smells." He gags as he catches a whiff of her malodorous breath, then turns a nasty shade of jade before placing a handkerchief over his nose, and shaking his head from side to side. Satisfied with her attempt at amity, she noisily pulls her valise from under the pew, sits it on end, and plunks her feet (bunny slippers and all) on top. "Feet hurt," she offers to no one in particular. She can stand on her head for all I care . . . if she'll just stop talking. Against my better judgment, I find myself drawn into the speaker's discourse. As the founder of World Wide Prison Ministries, Dr. Gene Neill, has been living out his faith in Christ for a good many years. Hundreds have come to know Jesus Christ as their personal Lord and Savior because of his ministry to those in prison. Before surrendering his life to Christ, he was a professional race car driver, and had served with honor in the United States Marine Corp during the Korean War. He'd earned a degree in Philosophy, and had graduated with a Doctorate in Law, cum laude, from the University of Miami School of Law. When he gets to the part about being a former public defender, a former special organized crime prosecutor, and a former mafia lawyer my seatmate breaks her silence, "Yea, right." She huffs in disbelief, "And, MY NAME is MARY POPPINS." Actually it's not. Her name is Atta. Atta Tude. "Knock it off, Atta!" She pouts and I sense that ugly is soon to follow. Oblivious to her, Dr. Neill continues. He shares how his very successful life came to an abrupt end when he turned to organized crime, drugs, and alcohol, "I was given a fifty year sentence in the federal penitentiary." "Fifty years????" Atta shrieks. "FIFTY YEARS? That's it?" I am mortified when she turns my way, "Speakin of cons, your ex is one ain't he? What'd he get five years, ten?'" "Thirty, Atta, and you know it! We’ve been over this before!" "Not much is it for kidnap, rape and burglary?" She's got a point; she usually does if I listen long enough. She feigns a look of sympathy and I find myself thinking, Maybe I've been a little hard on the ol'e girl. She IS right. What's thirty years for ravaging a young girl’s life? As a matter of fact, what's thirty years for obliterating ours? You can hear a pin drop in the massive auditorium as Dr. Neill talks about finding himself in an underground solitary confinement cell, in a maximum security federal penitentiary. There he came to the end of himself, and cried out to God for forgiveness. "Forgiveness????" Atta goes ballistic. "God FORGAVE the guy? You have GOT to be KIDDING!!!" Narrowing her eyes, she looks at me with suspicion and demands, "I hope you haven't forgiven Eddie! He doesn't deserve it!" I don't want to tell her, but yeah I've forgiven him. Sort of. For the most part. I think. In my heart-of-hearts I suspect my shallow definition of forgiveness is not the same as Dr. Neill's. He is talking about "taking the blow, feeling the pain, crying the tears, knowing the grief, being shaken by the anger, fuming over the unfairness . . . and still choosing to forgive" kind of forgiveness. He's talking about letting go and moving on. He's talking about transferring my right to get even to God. I've been around long enough to know that Jesus mandates I must forgive in order to be forgiven. He modeled it, taking my sin as His own, and paying the penalty with His life so I might be forgiven. He's forgiven me and I'm called to do the same. And, I'm not gonna do it! The service ends none to quickly; Atta is fuming as she announces, "I’m coming home with you. I'll meet you at your car." She steps on my toes as she moves into the aisle, and stomps out the door. I know exactly how she feels. "Wait for me!" I call as I gather my purse and sweater. "We've got a lot to talk about!!" At the gentle tap on my shoulder, I turn to find the Holy Spirit standing at my side. Wonder when He got here? He links His arm in mine, "Is there somewhere we can talk?"  I sincerely hope it's not about forgiveness! We slip out the nearest exit and into the bright sunshine. Atta, leaning against the car, catches my eye and frowns. She's obviously unhappy that Holy Spirit and I are speaking. He looks at me with loving concern and I can see it in His eyes; He’s heard every single thing Atta had to say. “You know, Ronda, it’s time for you to forgive Eddie.” "I’ve forgiven him." "Really?" While He waits, I take mental inventory of the preceding few years. They've been tough. Burying the shame, the unfairness, the blatant disregard was easier than facing it head on. I'd mouthed my forgiveness when necessary, after all that's what good Christians do. . . right? Nothing will ever erase the images of Eddie's arrest, the house search, and the cruel accusations. Being laid bare before a hostile community had shaken me to the core. I will never forget my "too young to understand" children's questions, "When is daddy coming home? What's a jail like? Why did he hurt that girl? Mommy, are you all right?" His choices shattered our lives. We lost everything because of him. How does one forgive that kind of betrayal? Truthfully, beneath my calm facade is a seething hatred for him. HAVE I forgiven him? Really? "Holy Spirit," I honestly say, "I have a right to feel the way I do. Look what he has done to us. No. I have not, cannot, will not forgive." I know I've grieved His heart as He pulls me close, then quietly slips away. Atta's smug grin tells me she hasn't missed a thing. She seats herself in the backseat of our car, and locks the door. I haven't the heart to tell her I wish she'd go away. How many ways can one spell miserable? Within moments of getting home I know I've made a mistake. She's been here before and knows exactly what she wants. Brushing past us she heads for the master bedroom, unpacks her suitcase and puts her slippers under the bed. "Ahhhh, nice. Very nice!" she sighs, then settles in for a long nap. We get the couch. Days turned into weeks. I miss my bed. I miss my privacy. I miss my settled heart. Atta is relentless in her pursuit, determined that I will never forgive Eddie. She nags. She badgers. Sometimes she's downright ugly. On my knees before Father God I try to talk to Him, but I can't get past my unforgiveness. Holy Spirit gently whispers, "I want you to forgive." No. I won't. I have a right to feel the way I do. I won't forgive. He doesn't scold. He doesn't harass. He lets me choose my way. I begin to doubt my stubborn refusal to forgive.  Maybe I, maybe she, maybe we are wrong. Bitterness . . . rape. Tit for tat, they're both sin. I pretend that all is well, but it isn't. I'm unkind and impatient. I''m dejected and alone. Faithful friend that He is, Holy Spirit does not badger or beg, He simply waits, letting me feel the weight of my decision. A week later, over a cup of hot tea, He gently asks again, "Will you forgive? It's time to let go and move on." My willful heart softens and I whisper, "I’ll think about it."  My struggle is this: If I forgive, Eddie, then I'm letting him off the hook. I'm no longer holding him responsible. And, that's not fair. Not after what he has done to us. Fair or not, anger is consuming my life. The burden is heavy and I am tired. I can't tell Atta, but more and more I find myself thinking, "I'd like to forgive, but I don't know how." I'm glad Holy Spirit is persistent. The final time He asks, "Ronda, will you forgive?" I am humbled and my stubborn will breaks. I weep in His presence as I totally surrender, "Yes, Lord, I will forgive. I don't feel it in my heart, and I don't know how to do it. But in obedience to You, and as an act of my will, I choose to forgive. One day will you let the feelings of forgiveness come?" Last time I saw Atta she and her bunny slippers were headed down the road.  Good riddance, fare-thee-well, don't come back, I call after her.  I'm glad to see her go. She gave it a valiant try, but, she lost the battle the day I gave my right to get even to God. ©rjknuth, 2006 "The last of the human freedoms is the freedom to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances." - Victor Frankl "The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, than education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness, or skill. It will make or break a company ... a church ... a home. The remarkable thing is we have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude ... I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me, and 90% how I react to it. And so it is with you ... we are in charge of our Attitudes."  by Charles Swindoll Italian violinist Niccolу Paganini (1782-1840) was playing a difficult piece of music before a large audience. Suddenly one string on his violin snapped, yet he continued to play, improvising beautifully. Then two more strings broke, and he completed the composition playing with only one string. When the applause eventually stopped, he nodded at the conductor to begin the encore. The violinist smiled at the audience and shouted, "Paganini . . . and one string!" Placing his instrument under his chin, he played again with that one string. Strength for Today: Acts 16:16-34 Storms