Conquering the Horror Within

Throughout November, I spent a great deal of my time composing and rewriting a short story that is just short of novelette length to submit to a horror anthology called War is Hell. Writers might be interested in the process (including finding six incredibly helpful people to critique it on short notice, for which I am eternally thankful), but anyone may benefit from the moral lesson that writing it drove home to me. My story, “Against Heaven and Hell,” concerns two people who hold onto their wounds and bitterness, and reveals the horrible paths they follow. The two people are a vampire named Luke and the infamous Benedict Arnold. The horror the tale highlights is something we can all find within ourselves: if we cling to bitterness, it can destroy us and, potentially, the people around us. Bitterness kills friendships, twists the conscience, blinds us to truth, robs us of health, leads to revenge, and ultimately ends in despair. Jesus said that people who refuse to forgive others will be turned over to tormentors until they have paid all they owe (Matt. 18:34)—not because God delights in seeing us tormented, but so that we might learn to show a little compassion in return for the huge amount of compassion He has shown to us. When we defeat bitterness by forgiving offenses, the person we release is ourselves. This is no new thought for many, but learning to walk in such freedom can still be a lifelong lesson.

While concentrating so much on writing “Against Heaven and Hell,” I found myself absorbing the attitudes of its two main characters. I grumbled at how little pay I would likely get for all my hard work. I felt that however fun this labor might be, my talent and time was worth much more. After all, such a piece of writing as this represents a lifetime of gathering and communicating stories for close to no compensation at all, and the result of half a century's work, I am pleased to say, is some of my strongest writing. I’m not the only person who shares such an opinion about this story. But I was falling into the same pit as Benedict Arnold when he harbored resentment toward Congress for not giving him his back pay.

Most people today know nothing about Benedict Arnold except that he was a traitor. But research reveals that he was a brave, charismatic general and a brilliant strategist—clearly one of the greatest heroes of the American Revolution. Without his help, the American cause may well have failed, and if he had succeeded in his betrayal, Britain would likely have won the war. George Washington thought the world of Arnold and did all he could to recognize his heroism. But General Arnold’s successes and temperament earned him some strong enemies, and he missed out on much of the recognition he deserved. Add to that plenty of time to stew over the injustices against him while he spent months in excruciating pain recovering from a battle injury, and you have a potential time bomb, if you will excuse a more modern alusion.

In my fictional story, a surgeon’s assistant tending Arnold encourages the bitterness in his heart and guides his thoughts toward the eventual betrayal of his country. My fictional character, Luke, acts as the embodiment of the temptations that beset the injured general, but in real life, we need no vampires to tempt us away from the healing that we can gain through forgiveness. It seems to be within our nature to hold onto offenses that have come against us, even though it means, so to speak, cutting off our noses to spite our faces.

We often make the mistake of thinking in terms of whether people who have hurt us deserve to be forgiven—as if it’s all a matter of the size of the offense, and we, as the offended, have the ability, and perhaps even the responsibility, to make that judgment. I have learned, however, that it’s not a matter of how bad the offence is, but of how much was paid by our loving Savior to rescue both the offender and the victim. The price was so high as to be compared with infinity.

Forgiveness is not always easy, no matter what we may know about it. When barbs pierce my heart, I don’t feel like I am forgiving the person who has hurt me. Sometimes the best I can do is choose to forgive, or, if that is not possible, to ask God to forgive for me (a model I learned from Jesus at the cross). The feelings of hurt and anger are normal, okay to feel, as long as we don’t cling to them and let them fester like gangrene in an old wound. The rule of thumb is to let go of these feelings within a day. “Don’t let the sun go down on your anger.” (Ephesians 4:26) In other words, don’t sleep on it and let a grudge seep into your dreams.

It may shock some to hear this, but sometimes the person we have to forgive is God. In the case of my character Luke, the incident that incites his evil bent is his childhood perception that his December 25th birthday has been supplanted by the baby Jesus—implying that from his very birth, Luke is slighted by God. It doesn’t matter how absurd the cause of our pain may seem. Feelings are important, especially if when we are children too young to make sense of our pain. It is important to acknowledge our anger. God is big enough to absorb it. In fact, he is the only one big enough to do so.

The feelings that accompany healing will follow the decision of the will to forgive. I’ve found it can take years, even decades, depending on the nature of the offense and our reactions to it, but the pain does lessen. I am convinced that the hard work of forgiveness is much more satisfying in the end than the seemingly easier road of resentment. And if we learn not to be offended in the first place, everything will be easier.


In other news, please note that I've just posted the final installment of “Manuel Pascal” under Robin’s Writings, in time for you to enjoy the entire tale for Christmas.


Wishing you all a blessed time as you celebrate the holidays this winter,
Robin