Ode to Daniel...

Daniel and I meet every Wednesday afternoon for lunch. He’s basically the big brother I never had. I remember meeting his sister in first grade—we had the same hair cut, same glasses, even the same giant brown van. I remember we used to laugh at Daniel, who was a typical Junior Higher, because he refused to wear anything other than baggy black pants and a button up shirt to school, even during the warm summery days. He was way too cool.

Then I entered high school. He was a senior the year that I came in. To my surprise, he treated me a lot like his little sister, offering his advice or encouragement whenever I needed them. I felt lucky that a senior would take time out of his busy life, to stop me in the hall and talk to such a little insignificant freshman.

Even after he graduated, we continued to keep in contact, chatting online or over the phone. We lost contact, however, after a couple years. Last year, I got a huge shock when I ran into him on campus and discovered that he had transferred to Biola. Since then, we’ve been meeting regularly to have lunch and chat.

We always have a lot to talk about—everything from cooking to family to the Chinese language and back to food. It’s fun to try different restaurants, or to go back to the same one (where we inevitably order the same things we always do). Sometimes I have to check my cell phone to make sure we don’t get carried away with our conversation, especially on days when I have an exorbitant amount of homework to do.

Today, like all of our other lunch dates, was really fun. We sat at one of the two-seat tables in Eagle’s Nest, letting the lunch rush flow noisily around and past us. Always the experimental, free-spirited cook, Daniel brought his latest creation—Pineapple Curry Fried Rice—and I ordered a chicken soft taco at the counter.

Some how or other, he and I got to the topic of forgiveness: how bitterness can be all-consuming, how God treats those who do not forgive (Matthew 18:34-35), and how refusing to forgive someone can ultimately eat away at you from the inside and make you miserable. In fact, we agreed that those who let bitterness and hate permeate their lives ultimately suffer more torture than those who they seek to hurt.

I have one or two people in my own life who, I believe, are perfect examples of that. On one hand, I realize that I have to be careful not to let them affect me—to make me bitter, angry, or resentful. Sometimes my sense of injustice gets the better of me. But I don’t want to be just like they are, to let them have victory over me (those types of people just want everyone to be as miserable as they are).

At the same time, I know I need to develop a greater sense of compassion for them. My inclination is to say, “Oh, let them be miserable. They made their decision; they have to deal with the consequences. They deserve what they get.” That kind of attitude isn’t very Christ-like, I’ll admit; I’m constantly convicted of it.

In all honesty, my sense of compassion and mercy is sorely underdeveloped. I tell myself that I know how to be empathetic. But when it comes to people who have no sense of logic or reason, I just have a hard time being understanding.

That’s one of the reasons I’m so thankful that I’m a Christian. It is the power of God to do the work in me that I could never do myself—to show me my fallen state and my inability to merit any value outside of Christ’s work in my life. It is His amazing love and grace that compels me to grow in mercy and grace towards others, even those I have trouble forgiving.