“To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover the prisoner was you.” -Anonymous

How long have I known you?  I can’t remember.  Even still, after so long, you don’t know I exist, do you?  Even though we are friends, you don’t see me standing beside you.  I’m right, aren’t I?  You don’t notice me at all, but…it’s okay that you don’t notice me. I will wait for you to see me.

We’ve been best friends for so long I have lost count of the days or years.  We have gone through so much together and yet we are still so far apart.  Today you asked me how we met, that you didn’t remember.  I smiled.  I remembered in detail.  It’s okay that you forgot.  I will remind you over and over and over until you no longer need my help.

You are my best friend, my heroine and my shining star in the vast heavens.  You are so far above me, and you shine so bright.  I am always left in the shadows.  It’s okay that you leave me in the dark.  I will bask in your light.

One time in junior high, you saw a boy that you really liked.  You wanted to ask him out, but didn’t know what to say.  You came to me in homeroom and asked me to give you the words.  I wrote them down on paper.  You got that date you wanted, but forgot you were busy that weekend with the slumber party we had been planning all week.  It’s okay that you had more important priorities than our friendship.  I will make up for that with my continuous devotion.

While walking home, more than once, I tried to tell you about Christ.  You interrupted and said you didn’t care, that what I believed was fine for me, but that you didn’t need it.  I just sighed and gave you the floor to talk about your new designer handbag.  It’s okay that you didn’t hear me then.  I will tell you again and again later.

I asked you to come to church with me one Sunday morning.  You agreed and tagged along, dressed in a black leather outfit and trench coat.  I didn’t mind.  As long as you came I was satisfied.  I wanted you to hear the gospel and to accept Jesus like I had done a year before.  You were flirting with a guy in the back through the entire worship service and sleeping through the sermon.  It’s okay that you didn’t listen.  I will keep you in my prayers.

I can still see the look on your face the morning of your parents’ funeral.  Your mother had been driving under the influence of alcohol and smashed into the side of a tunnel at full speed.  You’re father had been passed out in the back.  You were so sad that day, so cold.  You wouldn’t talk to me, not at all.  You just receded into your shell, your own little fantasy world.  You pushed me away.  It’s okay that you didn’t talk to me.  I will be here always willing to listen.

I remember so clearly the day you told me you tried doing drugs.  I can still hear your teary voice as you told me you were pregnant…and later on when you called from the hospital after having an abortion. I tried to help you through it, telling you to let me get you help, but you didn’t want my help.  I can still see the look on your face when the police barged into your house to take you to jail for multiple grave felonies.  It’s okay that you refused my help; it was your decision, your life.  I will still be here if you need me. 

You were charged with the misuse of multiple illegal drugs, underage drinking, having a job as a prostitute, and theft.  You were sentenced to three to six years in prison.  You used your one and only phone call to ring me and tell me it was my fault.  You yelled at me and said that I told the police and that I would pay for it.  I didn’t tell the police.  I probably should have, but I wanted to give you more time to change.  I wanted to give you a second chance.  It’s okay that you blame me.  I will take the blame for your wrongs any day if it brings a smile to your face. 

You sent me a letter at my new home one day.  It was quite unexpected.  I hadn’t heard from you in many years.  You had decided not to talk to me until then, I guess.  You said that you were coming to visit, that you wanted to meet my husband and three young children, as mentioned in one of my letters.  I was nervous about it.  You were a convicted criminal after all.  All the same, I let you come.  Before you were a criminal, you were my friend.  You came a week later.  You just showed up during dinner one day and smiled like we had seen each other the day before, like nothing bad had happened and like we were still the best of friends.  It’s okay that you pretend everything’s all right.  I will make it so.

I welcomed you in, playing along with your game, and introduced you to my family.  You seemed to really like the kids, and I wondered what kind of mother you would have been had you kept your baby.  You ate dinner with us, and were very respectful.  You were dressed in blue jeans and a plain shirt.  It was a very different image than the one you used to portray.  I wasn’t sure if it was a genuine change, or if it was just a front for some ulterior motive.  It’s okay if you confuse me.  I will do my best to figure you out.

You stayed the entire weekend, and when Sunday came, you were up at dawn, dressed in a nice top and a modest skirt.  You asked if you could go with my family and I to church.  I was more than happy to give you a ride.  After all, who was I to refuse someone a visit with God?  During the service, you worshipped with us, although you didn’t look sure why, you listened intently to the pastor as he preached the Word, and when an altar call was made, you gave me a look that made me want to cry.  You wanted what they were offering, what God was offering, but were too afraid to go up alone.  That had probably always been the case.  It’s okay that you were afraid.  I will be by your side to see you through your fear.

I stood and began to walk with you down the aisle of the Church.  Step by step we made it down the long row of red carpet and to the front of the congregation.  The pastor began to speak to you, first telling you the gospel and then asking you if you understood, believed, and accepted the message of salvation.  You nodded yes and I watched you accept Jesus as Lord and Savoir.  By the time it was finished, you were in tears.  I had never seen you cry like that, not in all the time I had known you.  When you were in trouble, you had been angry, but you never cried like that.  It softened my heart.  I hugged you and prayed over you with the elders.  As we were leaving, you hugged me and told me that you had been lost in that prison; that you were in despair and had cried out for someone to help you, but only a faded image came to mind.  You had thought of me and the ever-present smile on my face and decided to find out why when you got out of jail.  You told me that it was my loyal friendship that had led you to Christ.  You told me how sorry you were for always mistreating, abusing, and abandoning me and for taking our friendship for granted time and again.  I just smiled.  My prayers had been answered.  It’s okay that you hurt me back then, and that you’ll do it again.  I will forgive you.  How could I not?  You are my best friend.