The Mercy Seat

Sitting across from the blue-eyed boy, I saw his sadness, and it covered us both like a damp blanket; we huddled beneath it, together. Many had gone before me, had sat in this chair while they spoke reluctant, cruel words that caused the lines now prematurely creasing his forehead. They would disappear in an hour or so – he was too young to keep them for long. He is an old soul, though, and I am certain the scars remain.

When I took that seat, directly opposite his, I had every intention of following through with my orders. I meant to say the words that would cut him to the quick, the words of unlove that he never deserved. I tried to be obedient, but when I saw tears sparking his eyes, tears that did not fall – oh, he was too strong for that, my boy; bright, hot tears – I could not do it. How could I sit across from my best of friends and tell him what I hated about him in front of all of these people – my uncomfortable, confused comrades? And would I be the next one to sit in his place?

But there was just nothing to hate about him. I tried to think of something, anything that would fulfill the requirements of the ‘lesson’ without devastating him further. It was some kind of experiment. We were meant to learn something from this, though what was never explained, or perhaps I have forgotten. Was it punishment? Had he been caught listening to rock’n’roll again? Had he flashed a defiant eye to our master, a man who bragged about being born on Hitler’s birthday? Why was he sitting in that chair, across from me, eyes penitent without understanding? The always-ready smile that glowed from his deep charm was crimped into an unsteady line, and it cut me.

Then I saw him through God’s eyes, or through the eyes of a god I hoped existed somewhere. Not the one we had been taught. No, that one was a punisher, a slayer of Philistine babies, a fiery sword to smite down wicked, disobedient children like us. I looked at him and saw a beautiful, kind boy with a heart full of music, and I loved him, the totality of him. I wanted to comfort him, but I was not allowed.

So I took his hand, and I put everything good and tender into my eyes that I could find, and I said “Remember when I was six years old, and you were nine, and you borrowed a dollar from me?”

He shook his head, confused.

“You didn’t pay me back. But you don’t have to.”

I saw his heart smile, and I learned that day, in that moment, that mercy given is mercy received.