I'm Sorry

Ah...the apology.  That most convenient and irreplaceable of social lubricants.  How many of us feel suddenly and miraculously better when the klutz who just stepped on your foot on the bus turns around and says, "I'm sorry."  How many conversations are redeemed from degenerating into pointless quarrels and worse by a simple admission and apology for mishearing or misunderstanding each other?  How many marriages and deep friendships have been rescued from train wreck when both partners are ready willing and able to own up and say "I'm sorry."?
     My mother hated apologies.  Her two least favourite words appeared to be "I'm sorry."  I never once recall her either saying those words or graciously accepting any apology no matter how sincerely rendered, by anyone..  For Mom the word sorry was a verb.  There had to be credible evidence of repentance or she would have none of it.  Is it any wonder that she eventually divorced my father's sorry ass?
     Do you know the joke, "How do you know when you're just stepped on a Canadian's foot?"  The answer?  "He apologizes."  Yes, I am a Canadian.  And I apologize all the time.  Constantly.  Without knowing it.  And I am proud of this.  I apologize if I get in someone's way on the sidewalk, or if I unintentionally touch a stranger on the bus, or if something I said was misunderstood or misinterpreted, or if I am the one who misunderstood or misinterpreted.  If someone gets upset with me I apologize.  If I offend I apologize.  I know it's excessive.  But you know something?  This is part of the beauty of being Canadian.  We care enough to tell others that their comfort and dignity matters to us.
     At least this is the way I interpret it.  Some, perhaps many, may approach this more cynically, that saying sorry is a way of buying time, of escaping consequences, of saving your heiny.  And it is all of these things and more.  Even though the chronic apology is one of many things that mark me as Canadian there is the possibility that I use the apology for not precisely the same reason as others.  I actually care about other people.  Perhaps this is because I'm a Christian, and that I take my faith very seriously?  Who can say?  When I leave my place every morning I remind myself that I will be encountering Christ everywhere, in the form and face of every single person I encounter.  This is no guarantee that I am going to treat everyone well whom I meet.  On some days when I leave the apartment I might be very angry at God.  I am also aware that not everyone thinks this way, perhaps only a few, maybe one or two.  Or perhaps I'm the only one?  That is a very scary thought, that I would be the only person in Vancouver who would actually attempt to see and respond to the presence of God in every stranger I encounter in my daily comings and goings.  But I actually believe that there are others. 
     I don't always remember to do this.  I often forget, especially if someone has been particularly offensive towards me.  Perhaps I could at least appreciate their very legitimate need to be loved?  I will, I will, God being my help.  And I'm sure I won't be sorry.