Forty-three years seems like a long time to remember the name of a mere acquaintance. I have forgotten the name of an old lady who was a customer on my paper route when I was twelve. Yet it seems like yesterday that she taught me a lesson in forgiveness I hope to pass on someday.
On a mindless Saturday afternoon, a friend and I were throwing rocks onto the roof of her house from a secluded spot in her backyard. We wanted to see how the rocks rolled off the edge like missiles or falling comets.
I found a perfectly smooth rock and threw it. It slipped from my hand and headed straight for a small window on her back porch. At the sound of breaking glass, we ran faster than any of our "missiles."
I was too scared of getting caught that first night to think about the old lady. A few days later, when sure I hadn't been discovered, guilt set in. She still greeted me with a smile when I delivered her paper, but I could no longer act comfortably around her.
I decided to save my paper delivery money. In three weeks, I had seven dollars, which I thought would cover the cost of her window. I put the money in an envelope with a note apologizing and hoping it would pay for the repair.
I waited until dark, sneaked up to her house, and slipped the envelope through her letter slot. My soul felt redeemed, and I couldn't wait to look her in the eyes again.
The next day, I handed her the paper and returned her warm smile. She thanked me and said, "Here, I have something for you." It was a bag of cookies. I thanked her and began eating them on my route.
After several cookies, I felt an envelope and pulled it out. When I opened it, I was stunned. Inside were the seven dollars and a short note: "I'm proud of you."