When I was around twelve years old, a friend and I used to toss a ball over the cars passing down my street. I know—it doesn’t sound like the smartest idea—but at the time, it was incredibly entertaining. There was a thrill in waiting for one to approach, perfecting our throws, and estimating the height of the ball against the speed of the moving car. The challenge made the game addictive.
Inevitably, after playing for a long time, I miscalculated. One throw fell short, and the ball smashed directly into a car’s side mirror.
The moment I heard the crack, my heart dropped. I was absolutely terrified—of the driver, and even more of my father. I knew I was going to get into serious trouble. Oddly enough, I don’t remember my father ever grounding me, but in that moment, I was sure this would be the time.
After facing the driver and exchanging phone numbers so we could deal with the damage later, I went inside and told my mom what had happened. Then came the worst part: waiting for my dad to arrive home from work. The wait felt endless. My mind raced with worst-case scenarios, most of them involving my father being very angry and disappointed.
When he finally arrived, I worked up the courage to tell him everything, sharing the story in as much detail as I could. He listened quietly and attentively. He didn’t interrupt me. He let me finish.
When I was done, my father calmly told me that playing that game hadn’t been very wise—but he didn’t scold me or raise his voice. Instead, he shared stories from his own childhood, explaining that he’d often gotten into trouble himself, so much so that his mother had grown tremendously patient because of him. He joked that she must have been almost a saint. He assured me that he had done far worse things than breaking a car mirror, and that everything would be okay.
That experience, and many others like it, taught me the meaning of mercy. I had felt scared, ashamed, and deeply upset, yet his sympathetic and forgiving response gave me the courage to face my mistake without feeling crushed by it. I learned the lesson, and I also felt uplifted.
Every time we help someone feel forgiven—and deserving of forgiveness—it becomes a powerful and uplifting experience. The lesson I took away is that we all make mistakes, and when we face them with courage, we not only open ourselves to forgiveness but also to growth.
As you might imagine, I never played that game again. And ever since, when a loved one confides in me about something they did wrong, I remember this story—and the opportunity that forgiveness holds.
Who was the person who helped you stand back up by forgiving you?
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