When Friends are Silent

There are only a handful of hurts that would compare to that of a friend's silence. Martin Luther King was right: it is not the words of our enemies we remember but the silence of our friends. When a friend is being hurt in front of our eyes, no matter the reason, and we refuse to say anything, are we not saying that we are permitting the hurting to happen?  Whether he deserved it or not is beside the point; this is our friend to whom it is being done, and our silence shouts, Go ahead, this is okay with me. And to us, to whom the hurting was being done, there is little memory of the incident at all--it is the silence we remember. And every time we do, it is always like it had been the first time: the betrayal crashes like a wave against us, and it becomes painful to breathe.

God forbid I become the kind of person who denies her voice for a friend.

Growing up I have learned that all we get are chances, opportunities for offering ourselves to a task, to a difficult situation, to a grieving friend. I have been taught that to wait to be asked for help was to deny help; that to wait was to be arrogant. Doesn’t the Bible remind us that it is horrible: if you see that your neighbour needs help, do not wait for him to come to you; and when he does, do not tell him to come back the next day, for you will be responsible for the sorrow in his heart? I seem to have learned this too well, so much so that at the most inconvenient of times, I am unable to deny help even when it is I who badly need helping.

I know that eventually, the crisis will sort itself out, and when it does, it is I who will have been denied the opportunity to participate, to contribute, to help. One day, the crisis will be over, my friend’s heart will have healed, and I will not have been around for her.    

                But we do forgive, even despite ourselves. And it is during these moments when I am certain that we are made with a piece of the divine in our souls—moments when we have resolved with all our hearts that we will never forgive the people who fail us, and yet we do. Despite ourselves, we do.

I used to refuse any version of forgiveness that falls short of giving the Forgiven a perfect second chance. I don’t know if I believe this still, and I do not know whether this doubt is wisdom unperfected or the beginning of the corruption of a heart. Whatever it is, I have been learning lately that forgiving is a conscious decision that we commit to day after day after day, until we can look the other person in the eye and not look away anymore when we remember that his silence was not because we have pushed him away, like he says, but because he gave up too soon.   

            God forbid I become the friend who gives up too soon.

 

It is a tricky thing, forgiveness. It eases itself in with the acceptance of the other person’s limitations just as much as the acceptance of our own—our tendencies to assume falsely, to assume too much, and to assume too soon. About people, I’ve been learning one shouldn’t assume at all.

While we wrestle with the forgiving of a silent friend and more importantly, of ourselves, we tread around slowly, careful that we are neither pushing them away, nor letting them in once again. One day, we might have a change of heart, but right now we know we cannot let them in anymore. They will have to keep to the side lines this time, where they chose to stand when we needed them the most.

Yet, like a paradox, people whom we thought stood only in the side lines, become the ones who look out for us, and like an answered prayer, they become the ones who see us through. If only for them, I would want to be better, so I can one day get the divine chance to be the same to someone, as selflessly as these people have been to me.