It's a sorry business to hold on to blame

Things happen for a reason. Sometimes it's your fault. Other times, it's mine. OK, usually, it's mine. But often, the real reason is no reason at all.

As a child, whenever I broke something — a dish, a rule, or maybe my brother's leg — I would instantly yell, "Accident! Accident! I'm sorry!"

It was my only hope to assert my innocence and avoid bodily harm or maybe death.

It never worked. In my mother's world, nothing was accidental. She blamed me, my brothers, our stepfather, her mother or God and all His angels. But she never blamed herself. At least not outwardly.

Inwardly, she always had a knock-down, drag-out fight going on, so guilt must have thrown a few punches. I'll never know for sure. Mothers and daughters spend a lifetime trying to figure each other out. In the end, we just roll our eyes and say, oh, well, I love you.

If she ever suffered guilt, my mother, God bless her, never seemed to find the grace to say the magic words, "I am sorry."

She felt them, I'm certain, but just didn't say them. So I learned to say them for her.

I've been sorry all my life. It may sound a bit unhinged, but there it is. I've got no one to blame for it but myself. It's nobody's fault but my own.

If you step on my toe? I'll say I'm sorry I got in your way. If you're late picking me up and leave me stranded in the rain? I'll say it's not your fault, I should've taken a cab and an umbrella. If you confess you're having an affair with your best friend's husband? I'll insist I've done something just as bad (not like that, of course, but sin, after all, is sin) and resist the urge to ask if I'm your best friend.

No matter how sorry you say you are, I will be sorrier.

When we own up to our misdeeds (not to mention those of everyone else on the planet) several things happen.

First, it ends the senseless argument of who's to blame.

Two, it takes some of the sting out of the one who's been stung. Not all of it, maybe, but some.

Finally, best of all, it opens the door to grace. Forgiveness blooms in the heart of the one who's wronged, but it's planted by the one who says, "I'm sorry."

My children taught me a lot about forgiveness. No matter what mistakes I made, whatever needless pain I caused, if I said that I was sorry and asked them to forgive me, they did. I'm still learning things from them, and from their children. One thing they're teaching me is this: Everything is not my fault. Some things, yes, but not all.

Recently, I lost my cell phone. I spent all day searching for it, ripping apart my purse, my car, my house, my hair. No sign of it anywhere. Soon the beating began. How could I be so careless, so feeble-minded, so dumb? Finally, I called my husband at work.

"I lost my phone," I said, "and I feel like such an idiot."

"I'll call it," he said. Then he laughed. "Oh, wait. I've got it. Guess I, uh, picked it up by mistake this morning."

For a moment, I had visions of smothering him in his sleep.

But he was sorry, sort of. So I forgave him. It wasn't his fault. And for once, it wasn't mine.

I told you all that to say this: Life is short. We waste precious time casting blame for things that are no one's fault, while we long to forgive and be forgiven.

If you need to say you're sorry, say it quick. If you need to forgive, do it now. Don't beat yourself up, or anyone, for things that can't be helped.

Let go of old hurts. Don't let them keep hurting you.

The ancient poet Rumi said, "The wound is the place where the Light enters you."

Keep the scar, welcome the Light, but lose the pain.

If you need someone to blame? Blame me.

I promise I'll be sorry.

Sharon Randall
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Award-winning essayist Sharon Randall's weekly column has an estimated readership of 6 million nationwide. Born and reared in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North and South Carolina, Randall grew up in Landrum, S.C., and has lived for 35 years in "California of All Places."