Un-use-ability

Remember what it was like when you were a child and your parents were way cooler than your friends’ parents? If that wasn’t your case, I’m sorry. Anyway, I realized early on one of the benefits of growing up in the Ziglar family was my parents’ willingness to let us have pets – all kinds of pets – as long as we took care of them. Over the years I had horses, mice and birds, water turtles and box turtles, skunks and chipmunks, and even a baby armadillo – but only for a week.

Taking care of my critters taught me the usual things about responsibility, but my love for animals fueled most of my personal interests. I spent hours riding my horse on the trails and hunting for turtles and snakes in the swamp. But the biggest lesson I learned from an animal came at a great price.

I grew up a lot the summer I was ten years old. My beloved pet at the time was a chipmunk named Chicker. Chicker had a cage, but she was allowed the run of the house, and I awoke every morning to find her sitting upright on my pillow, paws held tentatively in front of her, studying my face. I tried not to move so she would stay close but the moment she saw my eyes flutter she’d dart off the bed and into hiding.

Every year our family went to Mississippi to visit both of my grandmothers and Mom would hire someone to take care of the dogs, cats and any other animals we happened to have. Mom always insisted that Chicker be in her cage when we left town so she wouldn’t scare the pet sitter with one of her sudden and unexpected appearances.

Catching Chicker was a feat, and the morning before we were due to leave on our trip Mom saw Chicker hanging onto the inside of the screen in her bedroom window; nose twitching, taking in the sights and sounds of the great outdoors. She knew if she could close the window fast enough Chicker would be trapped, so she rushed to shut the window and just as it slammed down, Chicker jumped to make her escape.

When I awoke that morning I saw my mother, arms extended towards me, tears streaming down her face, and my precious chipmunk lying lifeless across her upturned palms. My mother’s grief was so great, so intense, so complete; “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, “I killed Chicker.” Through her tears Mom told me what had happened.

Never had I seen my mother so distressed. Her remorse was consuming her and I couldn’t bear it that she felt so desperately sad. I jumped out of bed and hugged her, repeating over and over “Its okay, Mama. It’s okay. You didn’t know she would jump.”

For the first time in my life my concern was not for myself. I accepted my mother’s apology, her remorse told me how utterly and completely she regretted what had happened. The compassion I felt for her welled up instantaneously, my forgiveness was total, and though I mourned for my chipmunk, I mourned for my mother more.

Can you imagine how much more compassion our Heavenly Father has for us when we come to Him, broken and grieved, extending before Him, honestly and openly, the very thing we did that we know has broken His heart?
Repentance is necessary for forgiveness. Often the things that grieve us most are buried deep in an attempt to escape the pain, but that which we will not admit cannot be dealt with – or forgiven. My father often repeats a little saying that his mother said, “Tell the truth and tell it ever, costeth what it will. For he who hides the wrong he did, does the wrong thing still.”

I believe that even though we might have quit a behavior, when we pretend like the offending behavior never existed and we fail to deal with the reality of the consequences of our behavior, we put ourselves in a position of what I like to call “un-use-ability,” where the underlying guilt makes us feel unworthy to be used by God for the benefit of others.

True remorse and admission of wrong brings healing. Why? It reveals the truth and the truth always sets us free.