In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins according to the riches of His grace which He made to abound toward us in all wisdom and prudence. Ephesians 1: 7 - 8

Every morning waiting for the yellow bus to carry me from the apartment complex to the elementary school complex, anxiety would storm in me like the turbulent winter snow swirling in that Denver suburb I lived. Walking up the steps, passing her to take my seat in front of them took every ounce of courage my little body could muster. The seating was assigned. Must have been anyway, for the boys behind me constantly abused me. Every day, they pulled out my hair, threw items toward me, physically harassed me, jabbed me, jeered me, made fun of me. The bus stewardess, whose sole job was to keep order, allowed the boys to continually abuse me. She was mean. There is no memory of how she looked, just this mean vibe where her seat was. Anytime I complained that the boys were hurting me, she affirmed that somehow, I deserved it. She never let me change seats or have them move away from me. I do not recall if I ever told my parents or my teachers about the bus ride. Probably not, or if I did, they did nothing, for nothing changed. I eventually moved out of the state, to which her reply when I mentioned I wouldn’t ride the bus anymore was about how happy she would be that she didn’t need to watch this ugly brat anymore.

I was five.

Revisiting the memory recently, I realized something else. I was never vindicated for the abuse I suffered. The bus stewardess never paid for the abuse she allowed me to suffer. Those boys were never punished for the abuse I suffered. And for all I know, these decades later, all are doing well in life, successful, happy and have no thought for a little redhead child who hated buses for the rest of her life. And if I’m being honest, the abuse from the boys laid the foundation for my hatred of men in my twenties. Similarly, the abuse from the bus stewardess laid a strong foundation for my rebellious heart the whole of my life towards authority figures.

Perhaps you think it is a silly thing to meditate on. “The boys were just being boys.” “The boys liked you and didn’t know how to act.” This mentality needs to end. The boys were abusive and needed to be taught that is not how you treat girls or anyone for that matter. Ann Voskamp once wrote, “When boys will be boys, then girls will be garbage.” Understand, please, that I felt this on that bus with boys scorning and smiting and scarring me. I was garbage to them.

Perhaps you think I’m over exaggerating the bus stewardess. The reality is that I’ve not told you all of her abuses. She yelled and screamed at the students on the bus. Talked to the bus driver of how ugly and horrible some of us were. Her abuses were horrid for one who was in charge of safely getting children to school. I hope she never had children of her own to verbally use and abuse.

Perhaps you think it is time to move on, get over it, forget about it. The funny thing is that for many years, minus the hating getting on buses, I really didn’t think about it. Until recently, that is.

I am working through a forgiveness study and the memory percolated to the top. I analyze things, so I analyzed this. I allowed myself to enter that abusive bus, feel the pain of the boys behind me, hear the insulting tirades from the stewardess. I sat there allowing the emotions to flow and my mind to wonder about what forgiveness means in this situation.

Why did this memory percolate during a study on forgiveness? I suppose because I have unresolved anger and resentment. I am holding onto unforgiveness over a situation that happened when I was five. A five-year-old cannot grapple with the ideas of forgiveness and justice. A five-year-old cannot comprehend these deeply spiritual concepts alone. Nor can she understand why she was allowed to be hurt.

I never received justice for the abuse. I only felt shame.

And I never will be vindicated. That child was hurt. That hurt had no place to go, but deep into my heart. Forgiveness now feels cheap. Like my pain was for naught. And begs the question, what does forgiveness even look like in this situation? I have no idea. Seriously, this swirling emotions of hurt and searching isn’t helping me understand forgiveness here. Who do I forgive? The abusive boys? The horrible bus stewardess? The bus driver allowing such abuse to happen? My teachers? My parents?

I have worked through forgiving difficult things in the past. I understand the utility and need for forgiveness. But this? Forgiving something that happened as a child, so long ago, no justice served, no hearts mended, no grace, no remedy for a child’s soul to heal.

This is what makes Christ so offensive. His forgiveness.

How can God allow such horrible abuses? Because He will judge the abuser. He will vindicate the victim. He will redeem the memory. And His heart’s desire is that all souls will be forgiven.

EVEN THE ONES WHO COMMIT ATROCITIES.

This is what makes Christ so offensive. His forgiveness.

To work through forgiveness for this memory, I must give up vengeance and the right to hold strangers accountable for things done decades ago. And those same abusers just might have sought the forgiveness of Christ. And I am offended because of this reality. That Christ’s forgiveness reaches even to my abusers.

God’s vengeance stops at His redemption. God’s justice could include saving vile people who harm the innocent.

This is what makes Christ so offensive. His forgiveness.

And this offensive man walked the earth, the dirty roads that the righteous refuse to travel. This man, who forgives the unforgivable, carried the heavy burden of sin He knew nothing of. He struggled down a lonely road that ended in a crucifixion on the hill outside of civil society. Between two criminals, two vile men of their own making, He hung suffering for the souls dead, alive, and yet to be. The two malefactors harmed the innocent. Jesus was the innocent harmed for the malefactors and all sinners. He was spilling blood for them, forgiving them. He hung willingly giving his life for those thieves, the sinners. For you. For me. For those vile boys. For the mean woman.

The one man there to His side was vile and mean. He refused Jesus’ forgiveness. Rather, he justified his actions screaming obscenities to the Creator of the world. And his soul. Jesus loved anyway and would love this man if he was the only soul around. That malefactor chose unforgiveness. Chose death. Chose hatred. Chose cruelty.

The other man on His other side was vile and mean. He begged Jesus’ forgiveness for his cruelty, hatred, death. The love of this Innocent one compelled the thief. The sinner desired the love and mercy and grace of God found in the forgiveness of the most offensive sacrifice ever. This vile and mean man is in paradise living in freedom because he chose forgiveness. Chose life. Chose love. Chose grace.

And one of his victims was in the crowd around the crosses of the mean and vile men. And the King of the Jews, the offensive sacrifice. The victim, the innocent one, heard Jesus forgive his tormentor, his abuser. He was offended.

The crazy thing with forgiveness is that Christ offers it to everyone who will take it. Even to people I don’t think deserve it. But I wasn’t the one on the tree between vile and mean men.

Another crazy thing about forgiveness is that everyone decides if they want it or not. And the reality is that not everyone wants it.

Deep inside me is a five year old, redhead little girl struggling with forgiveness of an event I had no control over. And I realize that the forgiveness isn’t saying the abuse didn’t occur. It did. Nor does it say that they hold no accountability. They do. It does say that I no longer hold them in my vengeance. They are in God’s justice. And I am no longer held by their comments and abuses. They were the ugly ones for committing cruelties against a child. Not me.

And so, I will choose to forgive, to let go of that painful memory and allow God to redeem it. I choose to forgive and allow God to execute justice even if I never see it.

I choose life. I choose love. I choose grace.

When I allow God to use me as a vessel for forgiveness, I experience peace and freedom and healing at the expense of my vindication and vengeance and victimhood.

This is what makes Christ so offensive. His forgiveness.

This is what makes forgiveness so healing. His grace.