"Reconciliation"
By Dr. Mickey Anders
First Christian Church
Pikeville, Kentucky
August 1, 1999
Text: Genesis 32:22-31
John Claypool tells the story of twin brothers who lived in Kansas.
They were inseparable and did everything together to the point of going
to college together, living together, and returning home to go into business
together as they took over the family hardware store. One day shortly
after the end of WWII they were working - one was doing the books and another
was waiting on a customer. The latter placed a dollar on the cash
register and walked outside with the customer. When he returned the
dollar was gone. He asked his brother, "Did you put the dollar in
the cash register?"
"No, haven't seen it," came the reply.
The first brother searched but could not find the dollar. About
an hour later he asked again, but this time with a hint of suspicion in
his voice:
"Are you sure you did not see that dollar?"
"No, I neither saw nor touched the dollar and I do not appreciate your
incriminating tone of voice."
With that statement the level of argument rose until years of frustration and anger poured forth out of each of the brothers. The accusations did not cease with the argument but continued as each enlisted members of the town on their side. Finally they had to dissolve the partnership and built a wall down the middle of the store so that each could have their own business.
Two, almost three decades went by and one day a black Cadillac drove
up in front of the store. A handsome man got out, looked at the store,
and went inside. A brother came to meet him. "May I help you?"
"Yes, I am looking for whoever owned this store almost three decades
ago."
"That would be me," the brother replied.
"Then I have some business to do with you. About three decades
ago the war had ended and I was on my way home. I was hitchhiking
and train hopping across the US when I arrived in your town. I was
hungry and broke and when I passed by the back of your store the door was
open. I saw a dollar bill on the cash register and I took it.
I have never done anything like that and am here to pay you whatever you
say is fair to make up for my taking the dollar."
As he looked at the brother the man saw tears streaming down his cheeks. The brother softly said, "Would you step over here and repeat that story? That's all I want."
The man stepped to the other side of the partition and there sat a man who looked extremely like the first. He repeated his story and this time there were two men sobbing and holding one another. ( John Claypool, The Preaching Event).
Today's Scripture passage is a very similar story, for at its root the story is about twin brothers, Jacob and Esau, who spent twenty years alienated and separated from each other. For three weeks now, we have rehearsed the stories about Esau selling his birthright for a bowl of soup and Jacob tricking Esau out of his father's blessing. Esau was so angry that he threatened to kill Jacob. So Jacob left for his mother's hometown to find a wife and wound up staying there 20 years. Now with twelve children by two wives and two servant-girls, Jacob turns his face toward home.
Jacob must have thought about his brother every day for 20 years. He struggled with his guilt knowing he had cheated his brother. He remembered the angry look on his brother's face and that whispered threat from his brother, "When Daddy dies, I'm going to kill you."
But Jacob had chosen to run from his guilt and his brother's anger. Since Jacob was unwilling to confess, repent, or apologize, he felt his only option was to get as far away from this problem brother as he possibly could.
But twenty years of exile from his hometown and from his twin brother took its toll on Jacob. Finally, he decided to risk returning home to seek reconciliation with his brother.
He laid an elaborate plan to win over his brother. Six servants would lead the entourage with flocks of animals as gifts for Esau. Then with his wives and children in groups behind him prepared to escape if things should go wrong, Jacob would meet Esau and bow to the ground seven times.
When everything was arranged, he spent the night alone on the opposite side of the river from his family. There he had a fitful night, and a wrestling match that changed his life.
The scholars have had a field day trying to identify Jacob's opponent in the night.
Some suggest that Jacob was really wrestling with himself, and well he might. He is certainly struggling with himself to determine the kind of person he will be. He has to make a choice of being the deceptive, sneaky person he has always been or to follow God and become a worthy patriarch of a great nation.
Others suggest that Jacob was wrestling with Esau, another excellent suggestion. It is no accident that this fitful dream happens the night before he was to meet his estranged brother. No doubt, this meeting is front and center on his mind as he drifts off to sleep.
Of course, the most obvious interpretation is that Jacob was wrestling with God. And Jacob had plenty of business to do with God as well. Somehow he needed to get rid of the guilt that had haunted him for 20 years.
I wonder if you can identify with this story of alienation and separation. Is there someone in your life with whom you have a broken relationship? Perhaps it is a family member or a friend or a work associate.
I am always amazed at the frequency with which I hear stories like this. I remember talking at length with a mother in Arkansas who had not spoken to her grown son for years, though they lived in the same town. They had had a little spat, but neither one was willing to initiate a reconciliation. I remember visiting her in her home where she wept in great pain over the separation from her son, but she added, "But I am not going to be the one to reach out first. If he will come to me first, I will be glad to welcome him back." Her pride would not let her reach out to her own son.
At times like that, we need to learn from Jacob who wrestled in the night with his internal enemies. Though he ended the night as a wounded man, he somehow found the courage to confront his worst fears. The next day, he would fall into his brother's arms and experience the blessed joy of reconciliation.
Guideposts Magazine ran an article in 1979 written by Sue Kidd entitled, "Don't Let It End This Way.
The hospital was unusually quiet that bleak January evening, quiet and
still like the air before a storm. I stood in the nurses' station on the
seventh floor and glanced at the clock. It was 9 P.M. I threw a stethoscope
around my neck and headed for room 712, last room on the hall. Room 712
had a new patient. Mr. Williams. A man all alone. A man strangely silent
about his family.
As I entered the room, Mr. Williams looked up eagerly, but dropped
his eyes when he saw it was only me, his nurse. I pressed the stethoscope
over his chest and listened. Strong, slow, even beating.
Just what I wanted to hear. There seemed little indication he had suffered
a slight heart attack a few hours earlier. He looked up from his starched
white bed. "Nurse, would you - " He hesitated, tears filling his eyes.
Once before he had started to ask me a question, but changed his mind.
I touched his hand, waiting.
He brushed away a tear. "Would you call my daughter? Tell her I've
had a heart attack. A slight one. You see, I live alone and she is the
only family I have."
His respiration suddenly speeded up. I turned his nasal oxygen up to
eight liters a minute. "Of course I'll call her," I said, studying his
face. He gripped the sheets and pulled himself forward, his face tense
with urgency.
"Will you call her right away - as soon as you can?" He was breathing
fast - too fast.
"I'll call her the very first thing," I said, patting his shoulder.
I flipped off the light. He closed his eyes, such young blue eyes in his
50-year-old face.
"Nurse," he called, "could you get me a pencil and paper?" I dug a scrap of yellow and a pen from my pocket and set it on the bedside table. I walked back to the nurses' station and sat in a squeaky swivel chair by the phone. Mr. Williams's daughter was listed on his chart as the next of kin. I got her number from information and dialed.
Her soft voice answered. "Janie, this is Sue Kidd, a registered nurse at the hospital. I'm calling about your father. He was admitted tonight with a slight heart attack and - "No!" she screamed into the phone, startling me. "He's not dying is he ?"
"His condition is stable at the moment," I said, trying hard to sound convincing. Silence. I bit my lip.
"You must not let him die!" she said. Her voice was so utterly compelling that my hand trembled on the phone. "He is getting the very best care."
"But you don't understand," she pleaded. "My daddy and I haven't spoken since my 21st birthday. We had a fight over my boyfriend. I ran out of the house. I haven't been back. All these months I've wanted to go to him for forgiveness. The last thing I said to him was, 'I hate you.'"
Her voice cracked and I heard her heave great agonizing sobs. I sat, listening, tears burning my eyes. A father and a daughter, so lost to each other.
Then I was thinking of my own father, many miles away. It has been so long since I had said, "I love you."
As Janie struggled to control her tears, I breathed a prayer. "Please God, let this daughter find forgiveness."
"I'm coming. Now! I'll be there in 30 minutes," she said. Click. She
had hung up. I tried to busy myself with a stack of charts on the desk.
I couldn't concentrate. Room 712. I knew I had to get back to 712. I hurried
down the hall nearly in a run. I opened the door. Mr. Williams lay unmoving.
I reached for his pulse. There was none.
"Code 99, Room 712. Code 99. Stat." The alert was shooting through
the hospital within seconds after I called the switchboard through the
intercom by the bed.
Mr. Williams had had a cardiac arrest. With lightning speed I leveled the bed and bent over his mouth, breathing air into his lungs. I positioned my hands over his chest and compressed. One, two, three. I tried to count. At fifteen I moved back to his mouth and breathed as deeply as I could. Where was help? Again I compressed and breathed, compressed and breathed. He could not die!
"O God," I prayed. "His daughter is coming. Don't let it end this way."
The door burst open. Doctors and nurses poured into the room pushing emergency
equipment. A doctor took over the manual compression of the heart. A tube
was inserted through his mouth as an airway. Nurses plunged syringes of
medicine into the intravenous tubing.
I connected the heart monitor. Nothing. Not a beat. My own heart pounded.
"God, don't let it end like this. Not in bitterness and hatred. His daughter
is coming. Let her find peace."
"Stand back," cried a doctor. I handed him the paddles for the electrical shock to the heart. He placed them on Mr. Williams's chest. Over and over we tried. But nothing. No response. Mr. Williams was dead. A nurse unplugged the oxygen. One by one they left, grim and silent.
How could this happen? How could I face his daughter? When I left the room, I saw her against a wall by a water fountain. A doctor who had been inside 712 only moments before stood at her side, talking to her, gripping her elbow.
Then he moved on, leaving her slumped against the wall. Such pathetic hurt reflected from her face. Such wounded eyes. She knew. The doctor had told her that her father was gone. I took her hand and led her into the nurses' lounge. We sat on little green stools, neither saying a word. She stared straight ahead at a pharmaceutical calendar, glass-faced, almost breakable-looking.
"Janie, I'm so, so sorry," I said. It was pitifully inadequate.
"I never hated him, you know. I loved him," she said.
God, please help her, I thought.
Suddenly she whirled toward me. "I want to see him."
My first thought was: "Why put yourself through more pain? Seeing him will only make it worse." But I got up and wrapped my arm around her. We walked slowly down the corridor to 712. Outside the door I squeezed her hand, wishing she would change her mind about going inside. She pushed open the door. We moved to the bed, huddled together, taking small steps in unison. Janie leaned over the bed and buried her face in the sheets. I tried not to look at her at this sad, sad good-bye.
I backed against the bedside table. My hand fell upon a scrap of yellow
paper. I picked it up. It read:
My dearest Janie,
I forgive you. I pray that you will also forgive me.
I know that you love me. I love you too.
Daddy
The note was shaking in my hands as I thrust it toward Janie. She read
it once. Then twice. Her tormented face grew radiant. Peace began to glisten
in her eyes. She hugged the scrap of paper to her breast. "Thank You, God,"
I whispered, looking up at the window.
(Guideposts Magazine. Copyright 1979 by Guideposts, Carmel, NY
10512. Included in Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul, pp. 132-136. Copyright
1997 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Patty Aubery and Nancy Mitchell,
Deerfield Beach, FL.)