Being a parent tends to bring out some rather unpleasant sides of one’s character that perhaps would be better left unseen, hidden beneath the slimy underbelly of one’s stone heart. It certainly would be easier for one’s self-esteem. It is surprising, too, the creative ways the human heart can find to be wicked. Most moms will confess to the occupational hazards of impatience, curtness and fits of annoyance but I have been gifted with an artistic flare for sinful behavior that goes far beyond the run of the mill “Oh dear, I raised my voice at dear Suzy.” Though this genius for immorality comes in all shapes and sizes, I have lately been contemplating the grudging way I forgive my children.
Given the offenses for which my kids must beg pardon, it might seem strange, perhaps even absurd to say that I often accept their apologies with great reluctance. Of course, I know that no justification is possible for denying them absolution but still I will attempt to do so and disguise it as explanation rather than excuse. (I told you I was wily.)
In the first place, I am rarely convinced that they actually mean it when they say they are sorry. Sure, they want Mommy to stop being upset or angry, but it isn’t as if they have taken a great deal of time to contemplate the wrongness of their actions. They could sit in timeout from here to eternity and still not understand the heart-sinking feeling I get when I hear the crash of toys on hardwood coming from the room I just straightened or the maddening paranoia I live in daily knowing they are hiding around every corner in order to scare Mommy out of her mind and then laugh at my fright. How can they know all the little sacrifices made on their behalf that go overlooked and underappreciated?
So when they offer up a pitiful attempt of an apology, the serpent in my heart rears its triangular head (that means it’s poisonous or so says Animal Planet). It hisses in my ear that I am not holding a grudge; I only want what is fair and just. I want them to fully appreciate the gravity of the situation and then I will happily forgive. But that other voice, if I choose to listen, will fill my ear with quite another point of view. It knows that I don’t really want to forgive. In fact, it knows that I swill my anger and resentment around like fine wine, savoring the taste and pleasure it gives me. (I’m not much of a wine girl, actually, but give me a Ghirardelli square and I hold it there from now till the cows come home). There is something intoxicating about the power you have in the moment when someone asks for pardon, when they stand humbled before you. But left too long and that feeling of power can quickly become more of a case of sour grapes than fermented bliss. My unwillingness to forgive reflects more my ungrateful heart than the grievous nature of their crime.
There are many stories in the Bible which make me shake my head in disbelief; those stubborn Israelites wandering around the desert, missing the point time and time again; the Prophet Elijah, boldly confronting the false prophets of Baal one minute and running for his life the next. But one that gets me every time is the story of the unmerciful servant (Matthew 18:23-35). What a jerk! Forgiven so much and yet so unwilling to forgive. I never get too far into my tirade against this poor fictional character before realizing, of course, that I am this man; that I have indeed been forgiven much and that I too am all to willing to hold a grudge tightly in the grip of my sweaty hand. But I must take heart for unlike the servant in the story who is thrown into prison to be tortured until the debt can be paid, I have been forgiven even of my unforgiveness. It isn’t God, my judge, who throws me in jail to rot. He has set me free, purchased my freedom at great cost to Himself and my deliverer Jesus Christ. No, I am the one that holds tight the bars and refuses to let go. “Forgive us our debts as we also have forgiven our debtors” (Matthew 6:12). I have always interpreted that verse to mean that God will forgive us in the same way we forgive other people. But that thought is a bit unsettling, isn’t it? If I can’t forgive my five-year-old when she steps on my foot, where does that leave me with regard to God’s account books. But I think that is missing the point. I comprehend my own forgiveness as I forgive others. My willingness to pardon is a reflection of the depth of my understanding of what has been done for me. And so I must choose to swallow my grievances or spit them out altogether. Then I will be free to imbibe the much sweeter wine of God’s grace.
Dylan’s voice is now a gravelly rasp but still quite capable of delivering powerful emotions, startling metaphors, and home truths. Dylan smartly surrounds his vocals with equally raw instrumentation, including David Hidalgo’s accordion which graces most of the songs on the album. What no one seems to have noticed is the prominence of guitar work on this album, thanks especially to Mike Campbell (of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers fame). No other Dylan album (among the 30+ he has recorded) features so many guitar solos. In fact, there are multiple solos on most of the songs—gritty but melodic stuff that richly accents the lyrics.
As you watch the video, note the horse lagging at the rear for the first half of the race, some twenty lengths behind the leader. Well, that’s Mine that Bird, mounted by jockey Calvin Borel. His strategy was to lay back, hug the rail, and push hard at the end. By hugging the rail, of course, the horse has a shorter distance to run overall. But the challenge is finding a path through the tangle of horses in the homestretch. Well, Borel brilliantly guided his diminutive colt through the equine mass and finished first. Not only that, but he won handily—by almost seven lengths, the largest margin of victory in the Kentucky Derby in over sixty years! 
Changeling — Recently, I concluded that there is an inversely proportional relationship between the amount of hype that Hollywood gives a film and that film’s actual quality. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Changeling is an exception. Having avoided this movie like one avoids “Toys R Us” on Christmas Eve, I finally caved and am so glad I did. The whole atmosphere of the film is spellbinding and, for the most part, even-handed. The bad guys are really bad but entirely believable; the good guys are good but not saints. Though the clear hero of this story is Angelina Jolie as the courageous mother of a missing boy, there are other characters along the way who follow their conscience against the pressures of corruption. There is the policeman who goes with his gut rather than following orders; and the pastor who desires justice for his community but cares for the individual as well as the collective. It is the sum of their efforts which result in justice being served, and though you aren’t allowed a perfectly happy ending, you certainly feel the world is a better place for their struggle.
Australia — Back to my theory on the relationship between hype and quality… If I was tempted to throw it out completely, the film Australiacertainly relieved the temptation. Now I will admit that the site of Hugh Jackman galloping across the plains of said continent is enough to make any girl inwardly swoon and, yes, Nicole Kidman looks really pretty in skirts and has great taste in head apparel. But that is where most of the charm of this “epic” sadly ends. It is as if they put Indiana Jones and Dances With Wolves into a blender, and the combination is none too tasty. Though easy to dismiss for being just bad, I think the most disturbing aspect of this film is its message regarding what it means to love. Love is not sacrificing your own happiness for someone else’s. Love is not committing yourself to their well-being. That is imperialism! Love is freedom, this film tells us—the freedom to be who you are, whatever the price to those around you. Certainly I don’t believe that love means conforming yourself entirely to the wishes and demands of others, but there must be something deeper holding love together than sex and emotional whims.
Half Nelson — I have a habit of putting off films that I know are going to be good but not easy. It’s like saving your green beans for last. Sometimes it is tempting to eat the rolls and mashed potatoes first because they go down so much more easily. After months of pushing Half Nelson around my plate, so to speak, I was rewarded for the effort with a great story. Despite the occasional jarringly misplaced political rant, this film is an authentic slice of life. Too often, when films depict relationships between characters of different ethnicities, there is a hyper-awareness of race that breaks the illusion of the film. In this film, though the main characters are of different ethnic backgrounds, racial issues are never really discussed outright. They are just there. The overall message of Half Nelson falls somewhere between Requiem for a Dream hopelessness and Remember the Titans optimism. Lean too far one way and you are a nihilist. Too far the other and you are Pollyanna. This movie stays right in the middle. You won’t even have to hold your nose while chewing.