Of Mistakes and Mercy

I avoid making mistakes. I don't make bad grades; I don't get tickets; I don't break the rules. This makes life a little bit difficult...it's a high standard to hold.

I made a mistake this week. Mistakes that involve grades or cars or petty rules are one thing. But mistakes involving people? That hurts.

Only two weeks into my new area, and I seriously offended a less-active woman. She called me on the phone to tell me about it. She told me that she felt judged, that I had no right, that actions like mine are the sort that keep people like her away from the church.

Whew.

She was right. I was wrong. I've never felt so  miserable in my life! I listened and apologized. I cried; I couldn't help myself. Hurting people doesn't feel good. Trying to be a disciple of Jesus Christ and accidentally finding oneself in the wrong is devastating.

It reminded me of another mistake I made once.

I don't remember the details so much as the moral of the story. I was maybe ten, and my sister was fourteen--a sensitive age. It was bedtime, and I was calling her names and attacking her verbally. I wanted her to put up a fight (what the heck was I dong?), but instead she cried, hung her head, and went downstairs to sleep in the spare bedroom. Two minutes later, there were loud footsteps coming up the stairs.

My blood ran chill. Those were Dad's footsteps, and He was coming to kill me. I knew it! What I had done was wrong. And he was going to kill me.

He didn't. He looked sad. He said my name, and I hid under my covers expecting the worst. It  didn't come. He invited me to come downstairs where my sister was waiting. He knelt on the ground and invited us to pray with him. I don't recall the prayer, but I know that there was peace, and reconciliation. I know that there was mercy.

That is the moral of the story.

For every bad grade, for every ticket, for every broken rule, there is mercy. For every broken heart, for every hurt sister, for every foolish, less-active-offending missionary, there is mercy.

When I went to church on Sunday, God orchestrated a reconciliation. The woman whom I hurt came in late and slipped into the row in front of me. My heart pounded for the entire hour, but I tapped her on the shoulder after the meeting, and we hugged. I listened and apologized again. It will take some time, I think, but there is mercy.

That is what I learn from the scriptures. Whereas I make mistakes and think, "Heavenly Father is going to kill me," He finds ample opportunity to tell me that there is mercy for every mistake. "My arm is stretched out still," He says.

Yea, for thus saith the Lord: have I put thee away, or have I cast thee off forever?...Oh house of Israel is my hand shortened at all that it cannot redeem, or have I no power to deliver?...I will be merciful unto my people. (2 Nephi 7:1-2; 23:22)