Peter approached Jesus and asked him,
“Lord, if my brother sins against me,
how often must I forgive him? As many as seven times?”
Jesus answered, “I say to you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.

– Matthew 18:21

I had a rough week. Feel free to remind me that this is Monday, and a new week has only just begun. Last week was rough. So much so that it seemed to never end. It’s still with me, like a rock in my shoe.

It was a field hospital moment. Or rather, a field hospital three days. The hospital that Francis told us about. As a result of what happened during my week that never ended, I now have renewed reverence for the work of trauma nurses. The people who see humanity at its most vulnerable, angry and battered. My rational mind knows know people are hurting, and that there is a lot of brokenness and confusion and anger everywhere. But how often do I actually encounter it? The answer is not very often.

People who are hurting lash out. Sometimes viciously. I didn’t realize what was happening last week until things had blown open. Now I know. But hearing hateful and verbally abusive words leveled at me, I panicked, and took a defensive posture. This did not help the one who was hurting. It only made her more upset, and made me feel like a doofus. It was scary, and in hindsight I wish I had handled it better. I should have been by listening, exercising self-control and compassion, and recognizing the woundedness before me. But I did not. Now I know what to do that when this happens again. And I know it will.

Meanwhile, I must pray for this person who is hurting. I must also forgive myself for having failed her. My injury was minor, compared to what she lives with all the time.

In time, and with God’s help, I must allow my own injury to get smaller in the rear view mirror.