Forgiveness

On Nat's third day of school - his third day of school ever - the crossing supervisor got mad at him.

I thought it was uncalled-for.  He'd been balancing on a low brick ledge as I walked him out of school and had just hopped down when he saw the crossing supervisor looking straight at him.

I assumed she was going to get down on his level and speak sweetly and kindly, explaining that they ask children not to get up there because they might fall and hurt themselves.  No such luck.

"Right!  Now that you're down, I don't ever want to see you up there again!  You're breaking all the safety laws!"

Shocked, we crossed the road in silence.

Third day of school?  "I don't ever want to see you up there again?"  That was a bit much.

Breaking all the what?  All the "safety laws"?  Did she say "laws"?  What was her problem?

It reminded me of Adrian Plass working on being more forgiving in his life, confessing that he was thinking of scratching the words "I forgive you" in the paintwork on the bonnet (hood) of someone's car.  Tempting, to say the least.  I know the crossing supervisor's car.

I restrained the urge to deface her car and went home and thought about the whole incident.  Mulled.  Stewed.  And got so angry I thought I might crucify her with words on my blog.  But no, I decided a long time ago that I was going to use my blog (and my words!) for Good and not for Evil, and I decided to let the matter drop.

I would, however, not speak to her at the crossing.  It was partly petty grudge-holding on my part, it was partly my desire to avoid a lengthy prison term for homicide.

My resolve not to respond to her at the crossing strengthened when she yelled at Anna-Lucia a few times to stop when she was already stopped, and to get off the road while she was getting off the road.  Humph.  As if Anna-Lucia needed instruction to do what she was doing.  As if I needed to be overruled as the authority figure because I was obviously not doing a good enough job of snapping at my child often enough.

One day I observed her as children went home.  "Walk!  Don't Run!" she bellowed unkindly at every single child who crossed.

Other people's children.  Other people's pride and joy.  Howled at by a self-important nagging old shrew high on the power of her little STOP sign and reflective vest.

I just didn't like her.  And then Nat said something important.

We were walking into school one day and had successfully negotiated her crossing without having to make eye contact or respond.  Then as we walked into the school yard, hand in hand, Nat turned his face toward mine and said quietly,

"That lady said she never wanted to see me again."

Fighting down my urge to complain to the Principal and get her removed from her position, I quietly told Nat what she really said, what she really meant, that I thought her words were harsh, and I gave him an example of what I thought she should have said: "Oh no sweetie, we usually tell the kids not to climb up there in case they fall and scrape their leg on the sharp bricks.  Okay?"  Then I left it, only to hear the exact same words from my son as we walked into school the very next day:

"She said she never wanted to see me again."

Mentally calculating how early I could get out on parole for good behaviour if the Crossing Supervisor Homicide became reality, I quietly restated everything I'd said the day before, and again dropped the subject.

A week later, I was still ignoring her "Good Mornings" and her "See you tomorrows."  And one day, as we crossed the road under her watchful eye, Nat turned to face her.

"Good Morning!" he said cheerfully.

I thought to myself, "There's a lesson in forgiveness in there for me." 

I'm working on it, but I'm only half-way there.