Porrige, Forgiveness & Reconciliation

by Amy

A bowl of porridge with raisins, cream and brown sugar was placed in front of the Chief. When they’d finished breakfast Beauvoir and Lacoste went back to the Incident Room. But Gamache had something he still needed to do in the bistro.

Pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen he found Olivier standing by the counter, chopping strawberries and cantaloupe.

“Olivier?”

Olivier startled and dropped the knife. “For God’s sake, don’t you know enough not to do that to someone with a sharp knife?”

“I came to talk to you.”

All through BURY YOUR DEAD and most of A TRICK OF THE LIGHT Gamache has kept a respectful distance from Olivier. He understands that Olivier is still hurt, still blames him, and still isn’t ready to talk, much less forgive him. He doesn’t press, doesn’t crowd, and isn’t overly solicitous.

He’s decided it’s time to move on to the next step.

The Chief Inspector closed the door behind him.“I’m busy.”“So am I, Olivier. But we still need to talk.”The knife sliced through the strawberries, leaving thin wafers of fruit and a small stain of red juice on the chopping block.“I know you’re angry at me, and I know you have every right to be. What happened was unforgivable, and my only defense is that it wasn’t malicious, it wasn’t done to harm you –“

Asking for forgiveness is never easy. It doesn’t get any easier. Especially when you’re expecting the answer to be “no”. It’s not about being forgiven, though. It’s about being prepared to admit your fault, your regret, and your understanding of the other person’s right to be angry and upset.

“But it did.” Olivier slammed the knife down. “Do you think prison is less horrible because you didn’t do it maliciously? Do you think, when those men surrounded me in the yard that I thought, Oh, well, this’ll be OK because that nice Chief Inspector Gamache didn’t wish me harm? Olivier’s hands shook so badly he had to grip the edges of the counter.“You have no idea what it feels like to know the truth will come out. To trust the lawyers, the judges. You. That I’ll be let go. And then to hear the verdict. Guilty.”For a moment Olivier’s rage disappeared, to be replaced by wonder, shock. That single word, that judgement. “I was guilty, of course, of many things. I know that. I’ve tried to make it up to people. But-“

Olivier knew. He was guilty of many things. I think it is because he still feels guilty and judged and unredeemed – albeit not from murder – that he is also unforgiving. He hasn’t forgiven himself. He isn’t yet comfortable in his own skin. He understands himself. He is realizing people still love him despite his faults… He admits to trying to make it up to people, but penance is not the same thing as requesting and being granted forgiveness. He’s doing self-imposed penance. He’s making sure Gamache does his – to the extent that he is able to inflict it.

“Give them time,” said Gamache quietly. He stood across the counter from Olivier, his shoulders square, his back straight. But he too grasped the wooden counter. His knuckles were white. “They love you. It would be a shame not to see that.”“Don’t lecture me about shame, Chief Inspector,” snarled Olivier. Gamache stared at Olivier, then nodded. “I am sorry. I just wanted you to know that.”“So that I could forgive you? Let you off the hook? Well maybe this is your prison, Chief Inspector. Your punishment.”Gamache considered. “Perhaps.”“Is that it?” Olivier asked. “Are you finished?”

Gamache is reminding Olivier that he is loved. That his friends need time. He might be reminding himself, too. Olivier still needs time. Gamache has given him time. It wasn’t yet enough.

 “Do you think, maybe, we’ve ended up in the same cell?” asked Gamache. When Olivier didn’t respond, Gamache walked toward the door then hesitated. “But I wonder who the guards are. And who has the key." Gamache watched him for a moment, then left.

I think Olivier is wrong. Forgiveness doesn’t let the other person off the hook. Regret, remorse, reparation, and reconciliation might. What forgiveness does is free the victim.

Forgiveness doesn’t imply forgetting, pardoning consequences, covering up for mistakes, or ignoring past hurts. It is being aware without being wary, merciful without being inconsequential. It means understanding why you are hurt, but not becoming bitter.

Forgiveness allows to victim to become more than a victim. It empowers them.

You can forgive without being asked. You can forgive even if the guilty party is not remorseful or even trying to make amends. Jean Vanier said it better than I ever could in his book BECOMING HUMAN:

“Forgiveness is unilateral. It begins as the victim, with new found strength, refuses to seek revenge, or, as in the case of the woman in prison, prays that the oppressor may change, refind truth, and admit his evil ways. Forgiveness is then to have hope for the oppressors, to believe in their humanity hidden under all their brokenness. It becomes reconciliation and a moment of communion of hearts if and when they seek forgiveness.”

In answer to Gamache’s question, it is Olivier who holds the key to the prison. It does imprison them both, but Olivier is the one with the power. He doesn’t need Gamache to get out of the prison that is an unforgiving desire for revenge – even if the revenge is limited to withholding forgiveness and friendship. He doesn’t need Gamache’s willingness to make amends or admit his guilt in order to choose to free his own heart from the burden that is hate and rage.

Forgiveness is not the same thing as atonement. It doesn’t necessarily mean that you are ready (or willing) to trust the person who hurt you. It doesn't mean there is no price to be paid. It does mean you’re ready to shift from the place you’re in.

While guilt and remorse can be devastating, hatred and blame-placing can be just as difficult to bear. 

Both are useful. Without consciousness of guilt and true regret, there can be no change and no growth. It is essential to recognize when you’re wrong and be willing to do something about it or, if that isn’t possible, to at least express your regret and willingly chose to tread a different path in order to not repeat your mistakes. But that’s not the victim’s job.

Anger and accusation have their place. It is not uncommon for people to blame themselves and feel ashamed for things that are not their fault. It is important to recognize and understand justified anger. It is healthy to feel it. But at some point, it is necessary to let it go. Holding on to anger and casting blame might hurt the oppressor – if they’re conscientious enough to recognize and regret their behavior (as was Gamache) - but, ultimately, the one who is most hurt is the one who is withholding forgiveness. Olivier held the key to his own freedom from this prison.

Forgiveness is not reconciliation. It is not a willingness to submit to further hurt. It is not naïve or blind placement of trust. It is not ignoring what happened. Forgiveness is willingness to believe that while there is evil in the world, there is also grace. Forgiveness is choosing to believe that maybe, just maybe, the person who hurt you may learn their lesson. They may change. They may do better next time. Forgiveness is letting yourself know that while it hurt (and, depending on the hurt it may leave a scar) it doesn’t have to remain a gaping wound. Or, as a friend said in an email, “while it will mark you, it doesn’t have to define you”.

And, again, I will quote Vanier. He says there are steps to forgiveness. He describes them as: “(1) refusal to seek revenge; (2) genuine, heartfelt hope that the oppressor be liberated; (3) the desire to understand the oppressors: how and why their indifference or hardness of heart has developed, and how they might be liberated; (4) recognition of our own darkness. We, too, have hurt people and perhaps have contributed to the hardness of the oppressors; (5) patience.”

It sounds hard.

It is hard.

Forgiving isn’t easy.

It isn’t easy to forgive ourselves. It’s not easy to forgive those who ask for forgiveness. It’s even harder to forgive those who don’t.

“But I wonder who the guards are. And who has the key.”

Olivier had the keys to forgiveness. It was his to give. But the key for reconciliation was in Gamache's hands.

“Reconciliation is a bilateral affair; it is the completion of the forgiveness process, the coming together of the oppressed and the oppressor, each one accepting the other, each acknowledging their fears and hatreds, each accepting that the pact of mutual love is the only way out of a world of conflict.” (Becoming Human – Jean Vanier)

If Gamache hadn’t been humble enough to acknowledge that he may have made a mistake. If he hadn’t been willing to try to repair his mistake (by asking Beauvoir to reopen the investigation). If he hadn’t tried to make amends. If he hadn’t recognized Olivier’s right to anger and apologized for his part in contributing to his pain. If... Reconciliation was only possible because Gamache was willing to do his part.

In this story, things end up working out well. Gamache forgives himself – although he does have relapses and will probably forever be haunted, to some extent, by his perceived mistakes (some of which no one else blames him but himself). Olivier forgives Gamache and, in doing so, opens the way for reconciliation. A slow, careful, tentative approach, but reconciliation nonetheless.

And, as Olivier slowly forgives himself, he allows others to forgive him, too. He is enfolded back into the community. Changed. Scarred. Different. While I do not wish his pain on anyone, I think he is ultimately better for having overcome it. I think he is stronger, more empathetic, and a better friend afterwards.  I do know, as he does, how painful it is to come to terms with the parts of yourself you wish weren't you. Forgiving yourself can be a painful process of self discovery.

I do not know your pain. I only know my own. But I doubt anyone has lived any amount of time without something to forgive. I don’t know who hurt you, how much, or how close the hurt is to you right now. I do not know if those who hurt you are repentant or even willing to nominally ask for forgiveness. I do not know if reconciliation is even a possibility.

There’s a little bit of Tinker-Bell in all of us, isn’t there? I cannot find the quote, but in the original Peter Pan, Barrie wrote that Tinker was so small that only one emotion fit her at a time. Kind of like a toddler. If she felt anger, it took over her entire self. She couldn’t fit anything else.  Or, as Frankl put it in MAN’S SEARCH FOR MEANING:

“To draw an analogy: a man’s suffering is similar to the behavior of gas. If a certain quantity of gas is pumped into an empty chamber, it will fill the chamber completely and evenly, no matter how big the chamber. Thus suffering completely fills the human soul and conscious mind, no matter whether the suffering is great or little. Therefore the “size” of human suffering is absolutely relative.”

I pray that any hurt or pain we have doesn't become the entirety of our soul. I pray that we allow ourselves to feel, to hurt, to rage, to grieve... and we manage to let go, eventually, and regain other emotions.

I pray that we all find a way to use the keys we hold. May we learn to forgive – even if we do not forget. May we find grace so bitterness doesn’t take over our hearts.

And I pray that when we have hurt another, we face our own darkness. I pray that we find the humility needed to admit our fault and try to make amends. I pray we forgive ourselves and don't let those mistakes become the sum total of our lives.

As I wrote this, there were incidences piling up in my mind. Mistakes of my own that I have been granted forgiveness for. Hurts inflicted on me that I have learned to forgive. Helping my son journey through school bullying and even minor, unintentional hurts. Teaching (and learning) compassion and understanding.

I was also thinking of people I have never seen. People with hurts that are more far-reaching than mine. People whose lives, like Olivier's, changed much more drastically and publicly than mine ever has. People who might be stuck in this kind of prison. People who are role models.

I've been contemplating this post for awhile. I didn't think I was ready to write it. Maybe I was. One of the things that triggered writing it was finalizing my son's book (more below). He managed to explain forgiveness and boundaries. Another was a series of sexual assault stories that have come to my attention the past couple of weeks. Some of these stories are closer to me, personally. Some happened geographically close and have been all over the news with devastating ripple effects. One has been very public in North America. As I read the victim's statement, I was awed by her strength and by her grace. After reading her words, I have a hard time thinking of her as "victim". She's a survivor. She's a warrior. She's incredible. Admirable. I'm not denying her strength. I'm applauding her bravery. In her own words:

Right now your name is tainted, so I challenge you to make a new name for yourself, to do something so good for the world, it blows everyone away. You have the brain and a voice and a heart. Use them wisely. You possess immense love from your family. That alone can pull you out of anything. Mine has held me up through all of this. Yours will hold you and you will go on. 

I believe, that one day, you will understand all of this better. I hope you will become a better more honest person who can properly use this story to prevent another story like this from ever happening again. I fully support your journey to healing, to rebuilding your life, because that is the only way you'll begin to help others. 

Link to full statement 

Her words are powerful. I pray I have her grace and wisdom when facing those who hurt me. I pray I take these words to heart whenever I hurt someone else. If the hurts are apparently smaller and less significant, they can be lessons. Stepping stones. A chance to be faithful in little.

Porridge

It might be fitting that porridge is the meal that precedes this conversation between Gamache and Olivier. When I started reading about porridge I was SHOCKED! Apparently porridge is a “thing” now and there’s even a porridge club! Who knew? The internet is full of gourmet porridge options as well as people saying “true” porridge is made with water, oats and salt.

Porridge is a forgiving dish. It accepts plenty of different ideas and options and modes of preparation. I made a very “basic” (although not purist as in water, oats, and salt) recipe of oats and skim milk (1:2 ratio) with a tiny tiny sprinkle of salt halfway into cooking it (I had NEVER added salt to my porridge, but after reading about it and realizing almost everyone did – with many variations regarding when and how and how much salt was added – I decided to try it. I realize the Gamache’s porridge had raisins. I like raisins while they’re dry. I can’t stand "re-hydrated" raisins. I added some grated apple and some sliced raw almonds to mine. I hope I won’t be condemned for adding a bit of cinnamon and a sprinkle of brown sugar as well.

Now that I know there are almost as many recipes of porridge as there are people in the world, how do you make YOUR porridge?

And… for those of you who aren’t on Facebook and aren’t aware of my not at all subtle mentioning of my son’s first book, I’ll add the link to the end of this post. His book is about feelings, about being hurt, about forgiveness… but also about boundaries and standing up for yourself. I’ve said before in this blog that being his mom has taught me a lot. The wisdom in his little book awes me.

Link to the book, in case anyone is interested: Heart & Brain

All quotes – unless stated otherwise – are from A Trick of The Light.

Pain Doré and the Art of Salvaging

by Amy

“Gamache tried the door to the bistro and was surprised to find it open. Earlier that morning, over breakfast of pain doré, sliced strawberries and bananas, maple syrup and back bacon, Gabri had admitted he didn’t know when Olivier might reopen the bistro.”

“Maybe never,” he said, “then where would we be? I’d have to start taking in paying guests.”

“Good thing then that you’re a B and B,” said Gamache.

 “You’d think that would be an advantage, wouldn’t you? But I’m handicapped by extreme laziness.”

And yet, when Gamache and Agent Morin walked into the bistro there was Gabri behind the bar, polishing it. And from the kitchen came the aroma of fine cooking.“Olivier,” Gabri called, coming around from behind the bar. “Our first customers since the murder are here,” he sang out.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Gabri,” they heard from the kitchen and a pot clanked down. A moment later Olivier punched through the swinging door. “Oh, it’s you.”

I went to the theater the other day. The stage had a piano and four cubicle-like apartment sets. There were five people in one crumbling building. The play is a collection of moments in their lives, their longings, frustrations, and issues. A siren goes off sometimes. To the public, it signals a new scene or short monologue. The idea is that the building is a crumbling hazard and the characters are supposed to react (evacuate?) when the siren sounds. Eventually, in the end, the place is demolished and the four inhabitants of the apartments die. The old building becomes a new ruin. The last character – the outside observer throughout the play – ends the show saying he was (or could have been) the three year old child who was the sole survivor.

His last words are a reflection on what ruins are and what can be salvaged from disaster. What do you do with what is left? How do you pick up the pieces? How do you give new meaning and new function to the bits and pieces you ransom? What is the use of a broken past? Is it possible to find opportunity in chaos?

Sometimes I wonder if Louise Penny chooses these meals on purpose (of course she does, but could she be aware of all the double meanings, too?) or if it’s just serendipity. Another name for pain doré is pain perdu. That could be translated into “lost bread”. Old bread. It’s lost already. It would be trash. It’s salvaged. A new opportunity for what had been a ruin.

Pain perdu. Lost bread. Pain doré. Golden bread.

Olivier was ruined. He believed the bistro, the business, could be ruined. His life, as he knew it, was threatened. His reputation was lost.

I do think, though, that the man who was salvaged was better than the original. Just as pain doré is coated with flavor and toasted into golden yumminess, the character’s hardships gave him a “coat” of flavor, depth, and growth. I wouldn’t have wished his pain on anyone, but he was better for it.

Once again, I start talking about a recipe by saying I’d never made it before. I had never made French toast, pain doré, pain perdu or whatever else you’d call it. I looked up quite a few recipes and when I read the word “creamy” in this recipe I decided that this would be my first choice. Click here for the link.

It was yummy. I shared some with my assistant (who is a fellow bread-lover) and the two of us oohed and aahed over our brunch. It was spicy and full of flavor and yes, it was creamy. And not too sweet. Perfect.

There were so many recipes to choose from I felt like Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride trying to figure out how she liked her eggs. I didn’t try all of them. I just made the one that seemed to be the best match for me.

Rabanada (the Brazilian version) is frequently served as a New Year’s treat. I know my mother in law loves them. I asked how she makes it. She soaks the bread in milk (and sugar), then in beaten eggs and cinnamon. She then fries the bread and, afterwards, coats the fried bread in sugar.

Do you like French toast? How do you make yours? Is there any trick to your recipe? I loved the nutmeg and ginger that complemented the cinnamon. What flavors do you add? Butter or oil to fry the bread? Do you use “lost” bread? Or fresh?

Salad and Little Lies

by Amy

“You didn’t recognize him?” asked Clara as she sliced some fresh bread from Sarah’s Boulangerie.

There was only one “him” Myrna’s friend could be talking about. Myrna shook her head and sliced tomatoes into the salad, then turned to the shallots, all freshly picked from Peter and Clara’s vegetable garden.”

When we talked about comfort food I mentioned how much I love bread. I make my own bread, but I buy bread, too. Bakeries are dangerous places.  I’ve stood at the counter eating fresh warm bread while preparing a meal…  I’ve stood at the kitchen counter eating warm bread way before mealtime just because the bread was there, it was warm… 

“She picked up a slice of baguette and chewed on it. The bread was warm, soft and fragrant. The outer crust was crispy.“For God’s sake,” said Clara, waving the knife at the half eaten bread in Myrna’s hand.”“Want some?” Myrna offered her a piece.The two women stood at the counter eating fresh warm bread…”

I didn’t make these baguettes. Unlike Libby, my culinary expertise should be rated as beginner level. Until I started to write this post it hadn’t even occurred to me to make the baguettes. I might try to eventually. I like baking bread. No one (not even Gabri & Olivier) make their own baguettes in the series. So I bought mine from the local bakery like everyone else does!

The Brutal Telling might be my favorite book of the series. Not because of the murder. Nor is it because of the mystery. I was squirming most of the way through the book because I spent most of the story imagining how Olivier felt.

“If the first victim of war was the truth, some of the first victims of a murder investigation were people’s lies. The lies they told themselves, the lies they told each other. The little lies that allowed them to get out of bed on cold, dark mornings.”

I winced when I read that. It’s not that I’m guilty of murder. It’s that I’m guilty of lying to myself. I suppose we all are.

“The police were at the door. Soon they’d be in their homes, in their kitchens and bedrooms. In their heads.”

I think it was when reading this book that I was truly struck by Louise Penny’s writing. I think her genius is that she’s actually a philosopher disguised as a mystery writer.

“Stories have a strange power of attraction. When we tell stories, we touch hearts. If we talk about theories or speak about ideas, the mind may assimilate them but the heart remains untouched.” (Jean Vanier - BECOMING HUMAN)

Olivier’s story is particularly touching. We all have “versions” of our lives, little lies we tell ourselves. This is a recurring theme in these books. “Lies are the first victims of murder investigations”. This is said more than once. They’re usually innocent lies. They can be coping strategies - more like self delusion than a lie. They can be very useful tools for surviving in the world.

Your mother’s kisses healed your scraped knees. It didn’t hurt when they called you names. If you press the snooze button just one more time you won’t be late. You didn’t even want the “whatever it was” you couldn’t afford. That extra piece of chocolate won’t make a difference. You don’t mind that your birthday was forgotten. You’re not jealous of the friend who effortlessly managed what you’ve been striving for years to do. You’re not afraid of heights. The airplane won’t crash today. Nothing bad will ever happen to anyone in your family. You’re not really sick, you can manage to go to work today. That can never happen to you. It's not your fault. It's not that late. You're not upset. It didn't hurt. You're fine. 

Then there are lies that go beyond coping. The little boy Olivier grew adept at keeping secrets and hiding his true self because he was convinced he wouldn’t be accepted or loved otherwise. Not that he knew unconditional love as a child. He created a character. He acted out this carefully crafted persona all through his life. He became convinced that there was a huge gap between the person inside and the one other people saw.

What he didn’t realize what that his friends knew him. They loved him. They saw the real him. Not that they knew what he had done to the hermit or the extent of his avarice. But they knew the potential for it. Ruth makes that clear. They knew he was greedy. They loved him in spite of it.

Another thing that he didn’t realize is that, in some ways, while the little lies we tell ourselves do not change the truth, they slowly change us. The change can be for the worse. At times it is those little lies that allow us to justify small wrongs and deny our own guilt. That’s when they can become a kind of rot that kills us slowly from the inside out. They change us in awful ways. Beauvoir and his addiction were a fascinating study down a terrible road. I digress… I’ll leave the subject of Beauvoir’s addiction for another post. The change can also mean improvement. Doesn't the saying go fake it till you make it? 

Olivier’s case was a bit more complex, though. The lies he told and the secrets he felt compelled to keep weren’t as bad as he thought. He was so afraid of being eschewed by his friends and community that he continued to hide the person he believed they could never love. He had no idea. They loved him – although they were all hurt and a bit shocked – even when they believed him to be a murderer. A greedy secretive hoarder of treasures seems so much easier to accept than a murderer.

Although he had that “other side”, the horrible side, the hidden side of himself, the hidden Olivier wasn't the "true" one. It was just one part of the whole. He spent so much time hiding behind a carefully groomed image (a sort of lie he told himself) he didn’t realize that the little (big) lie had slowly become as much a part of him as the needy void he was so keen on hiding from his friends.

I think most of us will agree that while he was greedy, he wasn’t selfish. He was stingy with money and with treasures, but he was generous in his time and kindness. He was frequently the first to see someone’s need and to find a way to help. Many times he does so with ulterior motives, but still… 

Remember the whole storyline with the elderly lady who sold her antiques at a bargain and got Ikea in exchange? She was happy. He might have cheated her, in a way, but they both felt it had been a fair exchange.

It puts me in mind of one of Neil Gaiman’s tumbler posts. Someone asked how he could become a better person. Neil answered that he should fake it. Everyone is horrible at times. None of us are truly altruistic all the time (and probably not even most of the time). Gaiman’s suggestion is to fake it and, eventually, it will become habit. (Here’s the link: http://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/116751720466/dear-neil-i-am-a-horrible-person-how-to-be)

I think Olivier created a lie. He created a character that he could live with and he faked it. He was loved and he loved in return, but he wasn’t free. It took a murder and painful deconstruction of his lie to expose the vulnerable, scarred, frightened man that lived within the groomed exterior. It wasn’t his murder. The investigation, in truth, wasn’t about him. Nor would such full disclosure have become necessary had he been confident enough to tell the truth from the start. But then it was the greed that started the secrecy regarding the hermit, not lack of confidence.

“Myrna and Clara joined Peter at the table and as the women talked Peter thought of the man in charge of the investigation. He was dangerous, Peter knew. Dangerous to whoever had killed that man next door. He wondered whether the murderer knew what sort of man was after him. But Peter was afraid the murderer knew all too well.”

I think Peter’s discomfort in this scene, eating salad and bread, is telling. The characters who most lie to themselves and who are most afraid of being vulnerable and of exposing their souls are the ones who most fear Gamache, even when they are not murderers. Peter, Olivier, Ruth… and it is the unmaskings that have us turning the pages of the Inspector Gamache books.

I find myself reflecting on this idea again and again. In a way, ever since I first read it, this book has never left me. I find myself questioning what lies I tell myself and how harmless, damaging, or maybe even worthy they are. Some of them are useful to help me cope (I absolutely DO need a snooze button and 10 extra minutes before I get up). Some of them help me fake it into becoming the person I would like to be – even when I don’t feel like it (I love running early in the morning! Of course I want to talk about Pokemon and play with LEGOs for the thousandth time!) Others aren’t harmless – to me or others. Those are the ones I want to be brave enough to confront. Olivier’s story tells me that the people who love me don’t need those lies – they can handle the imperfect, vulnerable, and scared parts of me, too.

Salad

I had my gardening assistant (8 year old son) help me pick tomatoes from the garden. We also picked lettuce, arugula, mint leaves, and basil. I added chicken cubes which I’d grilled on an open pan earlier the same day. I cubed a Fuji apple and drenched it in the juice of one lime (it keeps it from becoming brown and adds flavor to the salad). 

All quotes, unless otherwise specified, are from THE BRUTAL TELLING, the scene that begins on page 28 of the paperback edition.