I turned to see the little girl flying through the air and land heavily on the upside down tower of a plastic dollhouse. It hurt to see. I grabbed her just as she started to cry.

“What happened?” I asked, petting and gently jiggling her.

“See pussed me!” was the answering wail.

I turned to see a phalanx of pre-school girls in pretty dresses. Scanning them, my eyes rested on the one in the center with her fists clenched at her side, a belligerent look on her little red face. She was dressed like a mini Catholic school girl: blue plaid skirt, a crisp white blouse, black cardigan, white knee socks, little black riding boots.

My heart sank; I ironed that crisp white blouse. The school girl was mine.

“See pussded me fust!” Was her fierce defense.

I pointed to the closest chair and she quietly sat, elbows resting on the table, her chin cupped in her hands. Still holding the offended I sat down beside the offender. The phalanx repositioned themselves around us.

“Did you push Eden, first?” I asked my weeping charge.

I had to repeat the question several times. Loud crying was the only response.

Eden sat, stony and silent.

Finally one of the watchers spoke, “She pushed her first.”

“Maddie pushed Eden first?”

My informant nodded.

“Did you push Eden?” I asked again.

The crying stopped. A slight nod was the only acknowledgement.

“Eden would you ask Maddie to forgive you for pushing her?”

“I sorry fo pussing you. Woodju fogive me?”

“Yess.”

“Now, Maddie, will you ask Eden to forgive you?”

“You fogive me?”

“I fogive you.”

They hugged and it was done.

I picture my daughter’s fierce little face, her arms rigid, fists clenched at her side, standing her ground, waiting for me to see her, to know her sin – defiant and yet scared too, wondering what I will do. I am glad I didn’t rush in, but waited and listened. I am glad I didn’t make it about me, but kept it about her and the other little girl. I am glad I encouraged her to lead with repentance although she was the first offended.

So many times I have stood, my own fists clenched crying out some variation on “See pussded me FUST!” to justify my own sin, and yet I know that repentance and forgiveness are the opening door to healing and freedom.

Sunday, while taking care of my girl, helping her navigate the entanglement of sin, listening and acknowledging her wound too, some door deep within me was opened, a pain I couldn’t even feel was released. My arms relaxed, my fists unclenched, my face softened and something was gone, done.