by Paul Cwalina
I was empty again. All of the good dissipated. I was still just crying into my hands. I hadn’t cried since I was a kid and now it seemed like I would never stop.
“Sir, are you ok?” I heard a female voice say.
It shocked me into the world outside of me and I shot up into a sitting position. I looked to my right and quickly wiped my eyes. I never felt or heard this woman approach or sit on the bench with me. She looked to be in her fifties, wearing jeans and a cream-colored sweater, with wavy shoulder-length hair and glasses. Past her shoulder, about fifty feet away, I noticed a man about her age and assumed it was her husband. He was walking a Jack Russell terrier, who couldn’t seem to lift his nose from the ground as he walked, investigating the scents of a thousand dogs that had been there before him.
I turned toward the woman, wiped my eyes and nose with my hand, then turned my eyes back to the ground and said, “I’m sorry. How embarrassing.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about. I hope you don’t mind me interrupting. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I understand. Thank you. I’m fine.”
“Forgive me, but a man in a leather jacket crying on a bench at a rest stop along the highway doesn’t strike me as being fine.”
“I’m okay...really. I’m just in the middle of learning a hard lesson in forgiveness.”
“I see. The granting or the asking for?”
“Both,” I said after a pause.
“From the same person?”
“Yes, two actually, but asking for it from far more people than I care to think about.”
“I never know which is harder, granting forgiveness or asking for it,” she said.
“Neither seems to be much fun, but I’m learning that granting it is far better.”
“Yes, it is. It works wonders, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but...” my voice trailed off as I thought about Chelsea and the prisoner.
“But what?”
“Well, I was feeling so good about asking these people for their forgiveness and granting it to the others against whom I had harbored such anger...but then I realized that there are two that are dead, and so many others I will never find...”
“Why won’t you be able to find them?”
I was embarrassed, ashamed and I didn’t want to elaborate. “Long story,” I replied and continued, “Anyway, I will never be able to forgive or be forgiven by them. I don’t know how to process that. I feel like I really need their forgiveness...and to tell them that I forgive them. What do I do?”
“Oh, sweetie, it’s so good you’ve come this realization of the need for forgiveness and the indescribable value of forgiving, but...” she stopped in mid-sentence.
“But what?”
“Well, tell me, are you a Christian?”
I turned and looked her in the eye, “Why does everyone ask me that?”
“Sorry. I don’t mean to get too personal. It just gives me perspective,” she said, apologetically.
“It’s OK. You’re the second person to ask me that in the last week or so.,” I said, in a manner that may have seemed irritated. “No, I’m not, but I have to admit that I’m beginning to sense that there is something bigger.”
“That’s good, Sweetie. That’s real good that you see that,” she said, then continued, “Well, I am a Christian and well, what you’re doing is good. It’s important to seek forgiveness from others. I’m sure it feels good and helps you psychologically. But, Sweetie, the real forgiveness you need comes from God.”
“No, it needs to come from these people. God has nothing to do with it.”
“ ‘Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight; so you are right in your verdict and justified when you judge.’ That’s from Psalm 51,” the woman said as if she was a Bible scholar.
“Boy, you Christians have a Bible verse for everything, don’t you?”
“Not just us. They’ve been freely given to everyone,” she answered confidently. “Anyway, do you know what that verse means?”
“No, but I’m guessing you’re going to tell me,” I sighed.
“Right now, you see what you’ve done as an offense against another person, and it is, but that other person is one of God’s children just like you. Whatever it is you’ve done was a sin against God by your actions against these other people,” she said, and paused before continuing, “If you hurt someone’s child, do you not seek forgiveness from that child’s father, as well as the child?”
I looked away at nothing in particular and thought about that. “Interesting. Guess I never thought of it that way.”
“That’s where you need to go for forgiveness, not only from those people who are gone, but for everything you may have done. If you understood the forgiveness that has already been offered by God through Jesus’ sacrifice, you would see that.”
“ I don’t know. I wouldn’t even know how.”
“You will, Sweetie. My husband and I are going to pray for you. We’re going to pray that God will reveal Himself to you and that you will seek His forgiveness.”
I wanted to say ‘thank you’, but the words got stuck, so I just nodded my head. I don’t know if it was because I wasn’t buying it or because I was.
“Looks like the clouds are gathering,” she said. “You may want to get that motorcycle home.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, looking toward the bike.
“Are you going to be OK? My husband and I are going to be getting along, now.”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
“Can I offer you one more verse before I go?”
I smiled, shook my head playfully in disbelief and said, “Sure.”
“ ‘But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.’ ”
I turned my eyes away and stared at the ground and thought about that.
She rubbed my back once in a circular motion as she got up from the bench. “You take care, Sweetie.”
I didn’t respond. I buried my face in my hands. I heard the car doors open and close, then the sound of the car slowly pulling away.
I sat back up and looked toward the sky. I was looking for an answer, but only saw the gathering clouds. I got back on my bike. The next exit was about ten miles away. I got off the interstate there and back on the southbound side of the interstate. Time to finally get this over with.
The conversations with Pastor Zee and this woman began to play out again in my head. The two seemed to merge as if they were one and I had a hard time deciphering between the two.
Like this interstate I was traveling, forgiveness is a long, two-way road. I’d have to travel it extensively in the near future, most of it in one direction and in the begging lane.
Somewhere along the way, I decided that I would cut the engagement photo out of the paper, have it laminated and send it to Sarah with an apology and a card to say ‘congratulations’. Then I thought of other ways I could approach everyone from whom I so needed forgiveness.
I pulled into the cemetery. The sound of my motorcycle as I wound through the narrow roads searching for Chelsea’s grave caused grieving families to turn and look at me with utter contempt. By their reactions and looks on their faces I knew they were thinking ‘how could anyone be so insensitive as to ride a loud, obnoxious motorcycle through a cemetery?’ I can even make enemies in a graveyard. That’s gotta be a new low.
I finally arrived at Chelsea’s grave, kicked the cycle stand, rested my bike and walked to the site. It was set apart from the rest like Diane had said, between two others. Seeing her name on the large copper-colored stone weakened my knees. Chelsea T. King. It was completely real, now.
For a full minute or so, I simply stared at her name. Then I took off my leather jacket. “You always liked this, Chelsea,” I said as I draped it over the side of her stone, before moving back to face her tombstone.
I just stood there and returned to staring at the stone as my entire relationship with h
er played out in my mind. What I found so completely surprising was how fresh and different every experience with her seemed at that moment. It was like I was experiencing them and seeing things for the first time; like I wasn’t even present for them when they were actually happening. The truth is, I suppose, that I really wasn’t present as they were happening. My focus was always on something else rather than on her.
My eyes were finally opened to the pure, selfless love she had given me; the forgiveness she gave every time I didn’t deserve it; the faith she had in me - in us - that we would be together, despite my inability to see or accept it.
The pain of being left by someone is insignificant compared to the immeasurable, self-inflicted pain of leaving someone with whom you should have stayed.
I fell to my knees in front of her headstone. I looked at it and read her name and the dates and then I saw the quote that Diane mentioned. It read ‘And this is why you should love’.
“Touche’, Chelsea” I said softly. “You’re right. Look how fleeting all of that was.”
I began to choke up, I wasn’t going to be able to hold back any longer. I put my hand on her name and hung my head. Through tears I said, “Chelsea, you deserved so much better. Your love was pure and you deserved the same in return. I didn’t deserve you and you certainly deserved better than me. You saw what little good there was in me and you tried to get me to see it. Forgive my selfishness, my blindness, my vanity, my complete self-absorption and self-love. Oh, God, Chelsea I am so sorry. Please forgive me.”
I felt something wet on my hand, then heard some splattering on the leaves of the tree behind me; then more drops on my arm, neck and head. Very quickly, the rain began to fall hard until it was soon in full downpour. It took a moment, but I looked at her name and smiled. Before today, I would have run to my motorcycle to get it out of the rain, cursing the rain all along the way. That would have been focusing on the silly things. Instead, I rose to my feet. With eyes closed, I lifted my face to the sky and stretched out my arms and hands and stood there until I was soaked from head to toe.
Chelsea was right. It’s so cleansing.
THE END
(please see next page)
I sincerely hope you enjoyed the book. I would love to hear your thoughts about it through a review on amazon.com.
Also, I love connecting with my readers on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Paul-Cwalina-Author/595776780544985?ref=hl
and on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PKC1963.
From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for taking the time to read ‘Dropping Stones’.
Sincerely,
Paul K. Cwalina, Author
Kingmaker
Paul K. Cwalina
Copyright 2015
All rights reserved
Acknowledgments
As is everything I do, this book is dedicated to my wife, Ann, my children, my parents, my brother and sister, and all of my family
Special thanks to my wife and to Melissa Johnston Miles for their medical technical expertise.
Also, a very special thank you to all of the wonderful and supportive authors at CleanIndieReads.com and the Clean Indie Reads Facebook page.
Edited by: Juli Caldwell
Cover design by: Victorine Lieske
Chapter One
It had been a couple weeks since I visited Chelsea’s grave. I was still numb. I was still lost. I mostly just wandered around the house, spending time in one room before my thoughts suffocated me and then moving into another, hoping the change in scenery would make the gathering shame go away. It never did.
Guilt is an excellent catalyst for weight loss. I ate for survival rather than health and certainly not for enjoyment. I was on a first-name basis with the college kid who delivered pizza to my house. That day’s delivery usually ended up being my only meal of the day. The pizza boxes were stacked eight high next to the garage door. I didn’t even have the discipline to open the garage door and toss them in the recycling bin.
I tried to warm myself at night by thinking of Chelsea, remembering every joke, every silly gesture, every warm, extended peck on the cheek, every time she sang a song thinking nobody could hear, and every loving glance she had shot into my eyes.
I thought about selling the house and using the proceeds to escape; to drive across country without a destination; to buy a small farm and live off my own harvest and isolate myself from the rest of the world.
Those were my thoughts late in the evenings, long past the time I should have been in bed and shutting down my mind and getting the rest I needed.
Mornings brought a little more clarity and a fresh dose of real world thinking. The time had come to bring the self-pity indulgence to a swift, heartless close and get on with putting my life back together and setting its new course. After all, I was still in charge of my own life. Decisions were still mine to make. Thirty-five was still young enough to build something and leave my mark.
The first thing I needed to do was find work. My parents’ estate could carry me for a while, but they weren’t the Rockefellers. I’d also had the discipline to save and invest since graduating college. I had that additional cushion, but I was starving for work.
I was no good as the care-free, come-what-may Bohemian. I needed to get back to work and feel like a man again.
I was toxic to all my connections at city hall, as well as everyone in state politics at the local level. I couldn’t take the usual route that ex-elected officials take and use a network of favor-obligated supporters to slide me into some government position or with a firm owned by one of them. I had my fill of Googling and Monster-ing to find work. It wasn’t that those avenues were bereft of opportunities, but ‘disgraced former mayor of a large city’ was not among the list of qualifications for any of the positions I found there. I knew I could get a sales job at one of the firms whose owner supported my campaign, but I had no desire to be a salesman. Besides, every person I’d call on would want to know what happened. I didn’t need that. I wanted all of that behind me, never to be seen or heard ever again.
I had no connections in DC, and, unfortunately, that’s the where the money was. It’s also where my heart was. I wanted badly to get back in the game. Politics doesn’t simply leave a person. The writer must write. The musician must play. The politician must influence. It’s part of one’s DNA. The chase, the hunt, the scorecard on election day— they are all intoxicating. Fighting in the arena of ideas and swaying the crowd to your side, your point of view is food for the ego. The pizza-fueled strategy meetings and call sessions...all of it — every element of it — kept me alive every bit as much as breathing.
I finally forced myself to get out of the house. I showered and changed, but opted to leave my budding beard alone. It was five days old and it was pleading to be spared. Being a politician meant certain sacrifices. Facial hair was one. Clean-shaven guys win while the bearded tended to be viewed as untrustworthy, as if they were hiding something. At least that’s what the pollsters keep telling you. What’s the occasional scratching of the neck or face compared to the liberating feeling of leaving the razor in the drawer?
Rather than go out into the countryside to find a quiet, secluded place for lunch, though, I decided to get right back into the thick of things and went downtown. I needed some shock and intensity to wake me up from the past few weeks of solitary confinement. I parked my bike in one of the downtown garages and walked right down Liberty Drive to find a good place for lunch.
After a couple blocks of nothing but chain restaurants, I headed into Jack’s Bean & Stalk. It used to be the Americana Diner, where a man could enjoy a classic greasy burger with a side of thick-cut and equally greasy french fries. That was until too many hipsters moved into the area and it was converted into a coffeehouse that served lunch as an afterthought. The appearances of the words ‘green’, ‘sustainable’ and ‘organic’ were more numerous on the menu than the actual choices for lunch. The best a carnivore could hope for in a
place like this was a chef’s salad, with cage-free eggs, free-range turkey and humanely raised ham, whatever that means. Even ordering that seemed to be a social crime and culinary sin, as the multi-pierced waiter treated me with the same disdain as he would someone who ordered a Coca-Cola in a Paris restaurant.