a little too exposed and vulnerable at the reunion to take the step that I should have taken in apologizing to Zach.
Apologies often cannot undo pain; but they can acknowledge it. Part of the cruelty of bullying is that the bruises it leaves are on the inside—it’s a hidden form of violence, shrouded by shame. At the reunion, Zach showed he overcame his own shame and vulnerability—and his mercy to me finally proved stronger than the shame and vulnerability I carried inside myself. Reconciling with Zach meant that I had to reconcile with my own self by taking responsibility for my actions, even though many years had passed. Mercy and reconciliation can lead to freedom and to new beginnings. But that freedom and those new beginnings do not include a free pass to forget.
Face to face with Zach once again—albeit virtually, on the telephone line—I repeated my apology: “Zach, I just wanted to tell you again how much it meant to me that you reached out at that reunion where we met a long while back. You apologized to me for giving me a hard time, when I should have been apologizing to you. I’m really sorry that I was such a bully.”
“Well, you know my grandmother always taught me to turn the other cheek,” Zach said, and then he chuckled. “If my grandmother had been allowed to be a priest, she’d have been the pope.”
I laughed. Then I asked, “Do you remember running for president together back in third grade?”
“Oh, now you’re really asking me to clear the cobwebs,” Zach said, neither confirming nor denying my memory of things.
“We’re much older now, Zach, aren’t we?” I said. “Time is passing.”
“It’s the moments that matter—not the hours or the minutes,” Zach reflected.
There was a pause and Zach added, “Back in third grade, I knew I could always talk to you.”
Another pause. “And you’d listen—sometimes.”
I laughed again.
“Just remember, I’ve always thought of you as a friend,” Zach reminded me.
I smiled to myself as I hung up the phone. Zach’s number was displayed on my handset—I made sure to write it down.
Suggested Questions for Discussion
1. What mindset and emotions can lead to bullying?
2. Do you agree with what Zach said in apologizing? Do you agree with him not calling the author out as a bully?
3. What do you think about how the author handled his meeting with Zach and why he acted the way he did?
4. How can mercy enable reconciliation between two people?
Suggested Questions for Private Reflection
1. If you were bullied as a child, or can imagine having been, what would it mean to bring mercy to that experience?
2. If you were a bully, or can imagine having been one, what could you do to reconcile with those whom you bullied?
3. If you were both bully and bullied—or again, can imagine such a situation—can you reflect on the relationship between the two?
Chapter Three
Mercy and Letting Go
“Let’s get the story straight,” I said.“The night of the salmon burgers.”
I’m not a handyman.
My older daughter, Veronica, can tell you that.
I tried fixing the toilet one time in our 1950s Massachusetts cape. As five-year-old Veronica supervised, I was able to remove the valve without much trouble, but I forgot to turn off the water. A waterspout shot up, almost hitting the bathroom ceiling. The cascade caught my left ear with a gurgle and whoosh, and drenched Veronica’s pink sweat pants. She screamed and ran out of the bathroom into the waiting arms of her mother, my wife, Caroline, who had just navigated her way through the piles of clothes and books I had left on the stairs.
Veronica and Caroline then collapsed on the couch, shrieking with laughter.
“Oh, Daddy! Thank God it was clean toilet water!”
They laughed because I’m not a handyman.
To which my younger daughter, Joy, can also attest. I managed to slice and dice her yellow-flowered flip-flops when I ran them over with the lawn mower—luckily, she wasn’t wearing them at the time. When she discovered the evidence of my misdeed, Joy gave me a pouty look and tears welled up in her eyes.
But she eventually forgave me because she realizes that I’m not a handyman.
Last and, of course, not least, Caroline can and certainly will tell you that I’m not a handyman. She’s dreamed many dreams for me: from romantic imaginings of building a rock garden in our yard to more practical visions of fixing lamps and electrical outlets.
Caroline still dreams her dreams. But she’s also understanding.
She accepts that I am not a handyman.
But I am a cook.
Veronica, Joy, and Caroline can tell you that. They hate to cook, but love to eat.
My specialty is Indian food. I’m comfortable with lentils, chickpeas, and lots of turmeric and garam masala. I can also do Italian—spinach lasagna is probably my best dish. I’m less handy with meat, but I can grill a steak and can manage a pork chop or tenderloin every now and then. Fish presents a special challenge—it’s a little delicate whether fresh or frozen—and I’m not a finesse cook.
But I am a cook.
I fix breakfast, lunch, and dinner—and get the groceries for good measure. I know I don’t repair things too well, and I make more messes than I clean up. But I’ve always thought that it’s a mercy in our home that things are divided up in a way that we each do what we can.
As I remember it, things went like this:
It was winter. A winter Daddy-Day, the day I stayed home to take care of Veronica and Joy who then were about six and four years old, respectively—so it was about eight or nine years ago as I write now. Work that week had been draining. I was pre-tenure at my college, so I really felt under scrutiny: my every interaction with students and colleagues had a potentially cosmic significance that could affect my job prospects, and hence the life of my family. Daddy-Day was a brief respite from that—and a different experience of being a “provider.” It also allowed Caroline to go to work at a local nature sanctuary.
On a normal day, everyone would wait for me to come home from work—I’d cook, and we’d have dinner. Things would be different if I was working after hours—attending a lecture, moderating a discussion,
