THEY WILL CALL YOU UNFORGIVING... BECAUSE YOU REFUSE TO BE A VICTIM TWICE
In the valley of Omambala, the Dog was known for a heart that held no poison. He lived in a sturdy compound with his goats, working from dawn until the crickets sang to keep his household full. He believed that peace was a choice one made every morning.
One moonless night, the Leopard leaped over the mud walls. He did not come to talk; he came to consume. He took the finest goat in the pen, leaving behind only a trail of blood and a broken fence. The next morning, the village gathered, expecting the Dog to bark for war.
Instead, the Dog repaired his fence in silence. When the Leopard, hearing of the Dog’s quiet nature, sent a message of shallow regret, the Dog sent word back: "I have let go of the anger. I forgive you for the goat you took."
The Leopard smiled to himself in the tall grass. To the Leopard, forgiveness was not a gift of grace; it was a sign of a weak gate. He believed that the Dog’s "sorry" was actually a "welcome back." He thought that once a man has been forgiven for one theft, he has been granted a license for the next.
The following night, the Leopard returned to the compound. He did not sneak; he walked with the bold stride of one who expects the door to be unlatched. But when he reached the gate, he found it reinforced with heavy timber and sharpened stakes. The Dog stood on the other side, calm and watchful.
"Open the gate," the Leopard demanded, his voice full of feigned hurt. "Did you not say you forgave me? Why do you treat me like an enemy when you have already washed the slate clean?"
The Dog did not move. He did not raise his voice. He looked through the gaps in the timber with eyes that saw the Leopard’s true hunger.
"I did forgive the theft," the Dog replied, his voice as steady as the earth. "I have emptied my heart of the fire so that I may sleep at night. But my forgiveness was for the goat you already ate. My gate is for the goats I have left. I forgave the debt, but I did not forget the character of the debtor."
The Leopard snarled, realizing that he had mistaken the Dog’s peace for blindness. He had expected to find a mat, but he found a wall.
"You are a hypocrite!" the Leopard hissed. "Forgiveness means things go back to how they were!"
"No," the Dog said softly. "Forgiveness means I no longer want to punish you. Wisdom means I no longer intend to let you hurt me. You may have my mercy, but you will never again have my trust."
Some people interpret your grace as a green light to continue their greed; they will call you "cold" the moment they realize your forgiveness didn't come with a key to your house.
Tag Someone That Need To Read This.
In the valley of Omambala, the Dog was known for a heart that held no poison. He lived in a sturdy compound with his goats, working from dawn until the crickets sang to keep his household full. He believed that peace was a choice one made every morning.
One moonless night, the Leopard leaped over the mud walls. He did not come to talk; he came to consume. He took the finest goat in the pen, leaving behind only a trail of blood and a broken fence. The next morning, the village gathered, expecting the Dog to bark for war.
Instead, the Dog repaired his fence in silence. When the Leopard, hearing of the Dog’s quiet nature, sent a message of shallow regret, the Dog sent word back: "I have let go of the anger. I forgive you for the goat you took."
The Leopard smiled to himself in the tall grass. To the Leopard, forgiveness was not a gift of grace; it was a sign of a weak gate. He believed that the Dog’s "sorry" was actually a "welcome back." He thought that once a man has been forgiven for one theft, he has been granted a license for the next.
The following night, the Leopard returned to the compound. He did not sneak; he walked with the bold stride of one who expects the door to be unlatched. But when he reached the gate, he found it reinforced with heavy timber and sharpened stakes. The Dog stood on the other side, calm and watchful.
"Open the gate," the Leopard demanded, his voice full of feigned hurt. "Did you not say you forgave me? Why do you treat me like an enemy when you have already washed the slate clean?"
The Dog did not move. He did not raise his voice. He looked through the gaps in the timber with eyes that saw the Leopard’s true hunger.
"I did forgive the theft," the Dog replied, his voice as steady as the earth. "I have emptied my heart of the fire so that I may sleep at night. But my forgiveness was for the goat you already ate. My gate is for the goats I have left. I forgave the debt, but I did not forget the character of the debtor."
The Leopard snarled, realizing that he had mistaken the Dog’s peace for blindness. He had expected to find a mat, but he found a wall.
"You are a hypocrite!" the Leopard hissed. "Forgiveness means things go back to how they were!"
"No," the Dog said softly. "Forgiveness means I no longer want to punish you. Wisdom means I no longer intend to let you hurt me. You may have my mercy, but you will never again have my trust."
Some people interpret your grace as a green light to continue their greed; they will call you "cold" the moment they realize your forgiveness didn't come with a key to your house.
Tag Someone That Need To Read This.
THEY WILL CALL YOU UNFORGIVING... BECAUSE YOU REFUSE TO BE A VICTIM TWICE
In the valley of Omambala, the Dog was known for a heart that held no poison. He lived in a sturdy compound with his goats, working from dawn until the crickets sang to keep his household full. He believed that peace was a choice one made every morning.
One moonless night, the Leopard leaped over the mud walls. He did not come to talk; he came to consume. He took the finest goat in the pen, leaving behind only a trail of blood and a broken fence. The next morning, the village gathered, expecting the Dog to bark for war.
Instead, the Dog repaired his fence in silence. When the Leopard, hearing of the Dog’s quiet nature, sent a message of shallow regret, the Dog sent word back: "I have let go of the anger. I forgive you for the goat you took."
The Leopard smiled to himself in the tall grass. To the Leopard, forgiveness was not a gift of grace; it was a sign of a weak gate. He believed that the Dog’s "sorry" was actually a "welcome back." He thought that once a man has been forgiven for one theft, he has been granted a license for the next.
The following night, the Leopard returned to the compound. He did not sneak; he walked with the bold stride of one who expects the door to be unlatched. But when he reached the gate, he found it reinforced with heavy timber and sharpened stakes. The Dog stood on the other side, calm and watchful.
"Open the gate," the Leopard demanded, his voice full of feigned hurt. "Did you not say you forgave me? Why do you treat me like an enemy when you have already washed the slate clean?"
The Dog did not move. He did not raise his voice. He looked through the gaps in the timber with eyes that saw the Leopard’s true hunger.
"I did forgive the theft," the Dog replied, his voice as steady as the earth. "I have emptied my heart of the fire so that I may sleep at night. But my forgiveness was for the goat you already ate. My gate is for the goats I have left. I forgave the debt, but I did not forget the character of the debtor."
The Leopard snarled, realizing that he had mistaken the Dog’s peace for blindness. He had expected to find a mat, but he found a wall.
"You are a hypocrite!" the Leopard hissed. "Forgiveness means things go back to how they were!"
"No," the Dog said softly. "Forgiveness means I no longer want to punish you. Wisdom means I no longer intend to let you hurt me. You may have my mercy, but you will never again have my trust."
Some people interpret your grace as a green light to continue their greed; they will call you "cold" the moment they realize your forgiveness didn't come with a key to your house.
Tag Someone That Need To Read This.
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