I know this guy. Frankly, I wish you did, too. He's one of those special people who changes the world some small way every time he says anything. Those are dangerous and wonderful people. And I feel something of what he's feeling and trying to communicate here, but from an odd direction: as a son who lost a father long ago. My one enduring memory is a happy one, and it made me think of a story.
I was in the house of a guy Russ probably knows, and my college buddy lent me a hand, and left me alone for a few minutes. My friend--we'll call him "Jim"--went back to the kitchen to speak to his father. We'll call him "Larry".
Larry was lamenting that day, all his putative failures great and small. I heard him apologize to Jim more than once. It still shakes me, what I heard next.
"All I remember is that you loved me, Dad."
It's not sacramental absolution, but it's pretty close.
When you entrust yourself and your son to God's mercy, his own words to you, spoken honestly, are the sum and substance of that mercy, and it will be an act of faith for you to accept it.
I was in the house of a guy Russ probably knows, and my college buddy lent me a hand, and left me alone for a few minutes. My friend--we'll call him "Jim"--went back to the kitchen to speak to his father. We'll call him "Larry".
Larry was lamenting that day, all his putative failures great and small. I heard him apologize to Jim more than once. It still shakes me, what I heard next.
"All I remember is that you loved me, Dad."
It's not sacramental absolution, but it's pretty close.
When you entrust yourself and your son to God's mercy, his own words to you, spoken honestly, are the sum and substance of that mercy, and it will be an act of faith for you to accept it.
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