I wrote to God every excruciating day during my long, excruciating divorce. (By the way, I get to label my divorce "excruciating." Trust me on this. If they handed out awards for the most tortuous, pain-inducing, soul-crunching divorce of the decade, my ex and I might not have won, but we would definitely have been there in an aisle seat when they opened the envelope.)

In the first two years of the divorce, I was basically nonfunctional. There was only one thing I could muster the energy to do: write. Every morning I told God every gory detail of every rotten thing that was happening, and then I yelled and screamed across the page for help.

I made a fuss on earth, too. Largely through the legal system. But after losing twelve straight court appearances, including a request to move out of state, I threw up my hands in desperation and started asking God a new question: How did I create this mess? I chewed this question over with God for months on end, trying to get to the bone of the problem.

Over time, two things became clear. First, my actions and beliefs had shaped my marriage. Yes, my husband's choices contributed, but I forced myself to stay focused on mychoices, my behavior, mythinking. I was already quite good at dissecting what he'd done wrong; it was time to determine how I was at least half the problem.

Gradually, I recognized that not only was I not responsible for his behavior, but —surprise! — I couldn't control it even if I were. What I was responsible for — and could manage — was me and only me. No matter how many times this reality percolated into my consciousness and onto my journal pages, I still found it difficult to digest.

The other awareness that kept knocking at my mental door was that, sooner or later, I would have to forgive myself. Forgive myself for making such appalling choices. Forgive myself for marrying the wrong man at the wrong time for the wrong reasons. And forgive myself for putting such incredible effort into creating a life that left me — and him — weary and unhappy. There was so much to forgive. But somehow I couldn't do it. At least it wasn't enough to say to myself, "I forgive you, Janet." Nothing happened when I did that. I did not feel forgiven. If anything, I felt more stupid, more ashamed, more wrong.

One morning, in an attempt to finally and completely identify what I couldn't forgive myself for, I wrote, "Dear God, in the name of security, I married a man I didn't deeply love." There it was, on the page. I had done this terrible thing. I had willfully and consciously walked down the aisle knowing that this man was not the love of my life. I did it because I was afraid to be a single mother. Afraid to be alone. Afraid to be responsible for a new soul all by myself. Afraid. It was hard to see those words, but once I had the first and most horrible "sin" on the page, I couldn't stop. All the things I needed to forgive myself for came flying onto the page:

In the name of giving, I had sex instead of making love.

In the name of sacrifice, I worked at a job I didn't enjoy.

In the name of friendship, I spent time with people who didn't enrich me.

In the name of family, I created a place of warmth and food, rather than admit that we were an illusion, not a family.

In the name of partnership, I gave away my money.

In the name of peace, glorious peace, I silenced my voice.

This was a hard, hard, hard prayer to write, but I felt clean. There it all was, on the page, every last atrocious judgment, all the errors in my thinking, all the misdirected effort laid out for God to see.

I knew God would forgive me. God's very good at that. God's got this forgiveness thing down pat. That wasn't the problem; the problem was forgiving myself. I had done a good job identifying what to forgive, but I still couldn't get to the actual forgiveness part. So, I asked God to do it. Why not? God's the expert at forgiveness. Why not give it to the best? Here, God, You do it. You do it and it will be done:

I want to forgive myself, dear God.

I want to watch myself in the rear view mirror,

struggling to go forward but careening off the road and say,

"It's all right. You tried. It's all right."

I can think the thoughts.

I can say the words.

I can form the prayers.

I can even lift my arms.

But somewhere deep,

deeper than the muscles,

deeper than the bones,

deeper than the blood,

deeper than the breath,

somewhere deep, it's not all right.

It's not all right in a place I cannot reach.

So, You go there, dear God.

Go where only You can go.

Go deep and make me whole.

Go deep and make me holy.

Go deep and make me "me" again.

Then, I can do it.

Then, I can forgive myself.

But I can't do it alone.

I was totally exhausted when I finished writing this prayer. ("In the Name of" from Spiritual Geography: the Country of Illusion) I made a hot cup of tea and sat on my dock, with the late afternoon sun on the back of my neck.

And I cried.

(Next week: How to write your own personal prayer of self-forgiveness.)

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Janet Conner, S.E. (Spiritual Explorer), is an expert on the power of practical spirituality to heal your broken heart and transform your world. She is the cartographer of the map of spiritual healing and author of the seven travel guides in the Spiritual Geography series. In addition to divine dialogue, she welcomes human conversation at {email janetconner@tampabay.rr.com}janetconner@tampabay.rr.com{/email}. © copyright 2006 by Janet Conner

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