Wonderstruck (15 page)

T
HE NAME
“E
UGENE
D
AVIDSON
” flashed across my computer screen, and for the first time in more than a year I felt nothing. Not a ripple of anger or animosity. No resentment or rage. Not even the slightest annoyance. In that moment, I realized I was finally free.

The journey was more difficult than I ever imagined.

More than a year before, I had received an unexpected call from our accountant telling me our payroll company, owned by Eugene Davidson, had failed to file and pay our taxes for much of the previous year. Through hundreds of hours of phone calls, we pieced together the details of a story that circled one painful truth: we had been embezzled.

The frustration was compounded by the knowledge that we had done our homework. Leif spent weeks researching payroll companies around the United States before selecting one that
earned rave reviews online as well as a gold star Better Business Bureau rating. The company handled the payroll for major companies around the United States, and the owner ranked as one of the top business leaders in his state. We hired the company to withdraw money from our business account, issue checks to employees, and pay taxes due to the Internal Revenue Service each month.

Everything ran smoothly for more than a year until we received a notice that we’d missed a payment to the IRS. Alerting the payroll company to the error, we noticed the issue was fixed immediately. We never had another problem—until a series of notices from the IRS arrived.

That’s when we discovered that while the company had filled out monthly paperwork for the IRS and withdrawn the funds for taxes, it never
actually
submitted the forms or paid the taxes. Instead, the company pocketed the funds. Phone calls and letters went unreturned. The company declared bankruptcy. Some estimates suggest the company conned more than eight hundred companies for upwards of twenty million dollars. When I spoke to a Secret Service agent about the issue, he told me, off the record, that with the amount of embezzlement taking place in our nation, this case wasn’t worth their time. I refused to believe him.

Over the next few months, I spoke with anyone and everyone I could reach—the office of the state attorney general, the police detectives working on the case, the Secret Service, the
IRS, our accountant, and others. Like a battleship in a narrow canal, the search for answers filled in every gap in my life. I joined online discussion boards with others who had been duped—many of whom had been embezzled for much more—in order to understand the complexities of the case. Following websites for news updates became a daily chore. I couldn’t look at Eugene Davidson’s name or photo without wincing. Infuriated and outraged by the thievery of the owner of the company, a steely hatred hardened in my heart.

An unprecedented cry for justice howled within me. In our culture,
justice
is a buzzword, something we’re to fight for on behalf of someone else, but all too often justice remains tenebrous and ambiguous. We know we want justice, but once it’s in our grasp, we discover justice neither looks nor feels quite like what we expected. Through the embezzlement, the term became personal. I shrieked for justice—overwhelmed by a sea of information and infrastructure I didn’t have the skills or know-how to navigate. I appealed to the IRS, which refused to forgive the debt. We paid all of our taxes a second time, this time making sure the money actually went to the government and not to an embezzler. Our request to waive the interest and penalties seemed fair, even just, but was denied nonetheless.

I felt like I’d been violated, as if someone smashed in one of our windows, climbed through, emptied my jewelry box, and left with all our valuables. Yet no one pursued the criminal. The cry for justice not only reverberated within us but with hundreds of
other individuals and businesses who were also swindled. Current loopholes, or lootholes, in the law allow anyone to open a payroll company, giving them access to pilfer bank accounts. Without further regulation the abuses will continue; in fact, some of the executives involved in our payroll company have already started another.

The fraud left me distrustful. My psyche became hyperattentive to anyone who broke the most innocent of promises. I second-guessed the smallest inconsistencies and found myself living on high alert for anyone who hinted of being a shyster.

The embezzlement also upped the ante for a new temptation in my life. One day, I stopped by a department store to pick up a blouse. Browsing the racks, I glanced across the jewelry counter. Like a magpie magnetized by a shiny bottle cap, a stunning silver necklace mesmerized me. The delicate loops of the chain rolled between my fingers. The elegance of the simple design was remarkable. An unfamiliar urge overwhelmed me. More than anything, I wanted to slip the silver necklace into my jacket pocket and disappear out the door without paying. For a brief moment, I fantasized about the ease of the take. After all, the chain didn’t have a security tag and the salespeople looked distracted. I scanned the walls and ceiling for security cameras—the only lens focused on the store entrance.

I snapped to my senses.
What was I thinking?

I dropped the silver chain and barreled out of the store. On
the drive home, I probed the depraved desire. Why did I want
that
necklace in
that
moment more than anything?

Temptation wasn’t a stranger to me. In the past, temptation had crept into my life, urging me to take a second look at a sexy image; enjoy a second helping of dessert; tell the truth, just not the
whole
truth. The allure came in many guises—sexual sin, gluttony, lying; but stealing rarely, if ever, made an appearance. Over the next few weeks, however, temptation’s persistence made me speculate if I was going to become a kleptomaniac.

In every store, I scanned the perimeter for security cameras. Waiting in line at a coffee shop, I estimated the time required to slip a mermaid-emblazoned mug into my purse. Filling my car with gas, I calculated the speed required to escape without paying. At a boutique, I needed to pry the boots off to prevent myself from walking out the door with a new pair. The primal urge to shoplift surged in my veins.

I prayed for the strength to resist the seduction of stealing and struggled to make sense of my life. One day I read a story of a woman who had been sold into modern-day slavery. She spent years of her life performing sexual acts at the commands of her captors. The police finally freed her. With the help of a nonprofit organization, she secured an education and started a business.

She rebuilt her life. But in the aftermath of the abuse, she confessed that it took every fiber in her mangled being to resist the seduction of mistreating others.

Reading her story helped me understand the temptations I faced. Having been abused, she felt the pull to abuse others. I had been defrauded, and now more than anything I wanted to steal from someone, anyone.

In the mire of my brokenness, I knew I needed to forgive Eugene Davidson, but the thought made me woozy. This man had violated our trust. His thievery had cost us wads of money, countless hours, immeasurable stress; the ordeal took a heavy emotional toll. The crimes testified to me that Davidson didn’t deserve an acquittal. I reviewed Scripture passages that reminded me I wasn’t the only one who felt this way.

In the Gospel of Matthew, Peter approaches Jesus about the practice of forgiveness. His question isn’t whether or not to forgive but how many times to extend absolution. What motivated Peter to ask—a fresh perspective on a popular theological discussion or something far more personal? Maybe Peter wrestled with forgiveness in his life.

Scripture doesn’t tell us the specifics of Peter’s struggle or identify who mistreated him. I suspect the person behind Peter’s question was a repeat offender—and possibly Peter had encountered more than one.

Throughout the Gospels, snapshots appear of Peter’s competitive nature. When a debate emerges about which follower of Jesus is the greatest, Peter joins James and John in the battle for the grandiose title. When Mary Magdalene delivers the news of Jesus’ death, Peter races a fellow disciple to the tomb only to
fall behind, muscles blaring, lungs wheezing. And when Jesus reappears on the shore after the resurrection, Peter cannonballs into the water and swims to shore, reaching Jesus before any of the other disciples. Jockeying for position has a way of leaving everyone feeling manhandled. Though Peter often instigated the roughhousing, he probably felt battered from the tussles among the disciples. Maybe that contributed to his question.

Contemporary rabbis of Jesus’ time sometimes limited absolution to three instances of premeditated sin, recognizing that any additional requests were probably not genuine. Peter probably suspects Jesus will be far more generous. Calculating three times isn’t enough. Peter doubles the total, throws in an extra, and approaches Jesus.

The other disciples eavesdrop on Peter’s question: “Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me and I forgive him? Up to seven times?”
¹
For a brief moment, I imagine the disciples admiring the audacity of Peter’s question and the apparent piousness of his suggested answer. Seven isn’t only generous but also representative of the idea of completeness initiated during the seven days of creation.

But Peter’s math is off. Though forgiving seven times may seem generous to rabbis, the number is only a fraction of what’s required. When it comes to pardoning sins, Jesus calls us to exponential living. How many times is forgiveness required? Seventy times seven—more than anyone feels like offering and more than anyone wants to track. Jesus gave his disciples more
than just a number, but a new way of life.

In essence, Jesus says, “Forgive wholly, and you will find yourself whole; forgive completely, and you will find yourself complete.” Jesus goes on to tell a potent parable of two slaves. Drowning in debt, the king calls the first slave to repay everything he owes. Jesus never tells us the source of the slave’s indebtedness—whether he overleveraged in a booming real estate market or harbored a secret gambling addiction. Regardless of how the slave amassed the debt, he owed the king ten thousand talents, a sum estimated in today’s terms as nearly ten million dollars and much more in potential buying power in that day. Reflecting on this absurd amount for a slave to owe, some scholars believe Jesus relies on hyperbole to emphasize the impossibility of repayment.

When the slave confesses his inability to repay the debt, the king orders that he and his family be sold for repayment. The servant falls down and begs for patience, promising he’ll repay everything. The king feels compassion and not only releases the slave but forgives the exorbitant debt, displaying a hardy grace.

Unfortunately, the slave suffers from short-term memory loss. He finds a fellow slave who owes him a single day’s wages. Violently choking the fellow slave, he demands the small debt be repaid. The fellow slave begs for patience, promising repayment, but the forgiven slave refuses and throws his comrade in prison. When the king catches whiff of the injustice, he exposes the forgiven slave’s lack of mercy and hands him over to the
bouncers until everything is paid. The parable illustrates divine arithmetic, reminding us that whatever we forgive is chump change compared to how much we’ve been forgiven by God.

Reflecting on Jesus’ response to Peter, I realized I’d become indifferent to the wonder of forgiveness and the incalculable debts God had forgiven me. My failure to forgive signaled that I had let go of the priceless treasure of God in my life. I had lost sight of the God who paints unspeakable beauty in the sky for people who neither deserve nor appreciate his work. I needed to be wonderstruck by forgiveness and grasp the grace of God again.

The wonder of forgiveness invites us to live alert to the work of God among us. All too often, a pardon follows an apology, an expression of sorrow, an act of repentance, or after a set of criteria has been met. But the absolution Jesus suggests to Peter is absurd. Jesus suggests that even when the apology becomes insincere, even when the person doesn’t really mean what they’re saying, even when you’re beyond hope the other person will ever change, keep on dispensing grace. Jesus teaches Peter to embrace an inexhaustible forgiveness—one whose only condition is that we keep extending it.

My first efforts to forgive Eugene felt forced as I choked out a few words of absolution. I eventually reached a place where I could say, “I forgive you,” aloud without hesitance, but the
words on my lips didn’t match what I still harbored in my heart. For a brief period, I thought changing up the way I said, “I forgive you,” might help. I altered the pace and even emphasized the different syllables.

One morning I scribbled a prayer of amnesty, hoping something about placing pen on paper would make the forgiveness feel more real. The words flowed from my pen but not from my heart. Frustrated and angry, I confessed to God I didn’t have the grace or strength to forgive and asked him to supply both in greater measure. Over the upcoming weeks he answered my prayer, and I found the words more heartfelt and sincere.