Choosing Forgiveness: A Lesson From My Scotch-Irish Mother and a Friendship I Could Have Missed

Our Sunday School lesson the past few weeks has been about forgiveness. Have you noticed forgiveness is rarely, if ever discussed in our society.

It is one thing to talk about forgiveness and another thing to practice it when someone has hurt your feelings or wounded your pride. I call it ‘butthurt.’ Butthurt has become an epidemic in our society. I think social media has made it worse.
I know how easily I can harbor bitterness and get my own butthurt. I can replay a bad encounter, remember how someone treated me, and imagine what I will say when I finally get the opportunity to get even. But I have chosen to forgive and move on—even when that choice has been difficult.
Sometimes the person we resent may not even realize they have wronged us. Meanwhile, we continue carrying the hurt.
My late mother’s words about forgiving others have stayed with me. One experience with my friend, historian Marty Luffman, reminds me why her advice mattered.

The Camaro and the Grudge
Many people know the story of how Marty once rudely ran me out of his office after I stopped by requesting an auto insurance quote for my 1968 Camaro. I recall the words like it was yesterday “I’m. It insuring him!!!”
I was proud of that car as I installed a 12-bolt positraction rear end and a four-speed transmission.
Later, I shared that story at our Smyrna Rotary Club while Marty was sitting with us, Paul Latture, our Rutherford County Chamber of Commerce Director brought the incident into perspective.
“Do you blame him?” Paul asked. “Would you insure yourself, looking back?”
My response was simple: “No.”
Looking back, I could see the humor in it. At the time, however, my pride had been hurt. I had vowed that someday I would get Marty back.
Then one day, Marty walked into my business, just a mile down the road from his.

Here was my chance.
A Choice at the Door
In that moment, I had a decision to make.
I could cuss Marty out and tell him not to let the door hit him in the buttocks on his way out, as my late father, a World War II veteran, would have said. My late father could outcuss any sailer and was quick with a quip. Or I could follow the example of my late Scotch-Irish mother and forgive him.
I thought about what Mom would want me to do.
I chose to forgive.
That does not mean the decision came easily. I had held on to the idea of getting even, and now the opportunity was standing right in front of me. But I decided not to let that old resentment determine how I treated him.

Ironically, Marty and I quickly became friends—and we have been friends ever since.
What I once imagined as an opportunity for revenge became the beginning of a friendship.

Long before a near-fatal crash threatened to strip away his mobility, Tennessee horseman Marty Luffman was defined by the thunder of hooves and the crack of gunfire in the high-speed world of cowboy mounted shooting. Marty also started his business on Nissan Drive next door to Waffle House when he was 33 years of age.

The Burden We Carry
That experience taught me something about bitterness: I can hold on to an offense long after the original encounter has ended. I can carry it into another day, another conversation, and another opportunity to do better.
For me, choosing forgiveness meant deciding that the incident would not control what happened next. It did not require pretending that my feelings had never been hurt. It required letting go of my determination to make Marty feel the same way.
I also had to admit that Paul had a point about the Camaro.
That little bit of honesty helped make room for humility—and, eventually, humor.

From Planning Revenge to Talking About Life
Our friendship has become especially meaningful as we have shared more serious conversations.
Recently, Marty and I discussed his funeral arrangements after he received troubling news from a doctor at Vanderbilt. Marty told me he had a bacterial infection caused by pseudomonas aeruginosa, which he understood was treatable but not curable in his particular case.
Even in the seriousness of that conversation, I told him, “You may outlive me.”
The truth is, neither of us knows.

My mother often said, “We’re not promised tomorrow.”
Her words mean more to me as time goes by. I think about the friendship I would have missed if I had chosen revenge when Marty walked through my door. I might have enjoyed a moment of satisfaction, but I could have closed the door on years of friendship.
Instead of becoming the man I finally got even with, Marty became my friend.

Putting the Lesson Into Practice
The lesson about God’s mercy becomes personal when I consider how I respond to someone who has offended me. It is easy to appreciate forgiveness when I am the one who needs it. The harder moment comes when I have the opportunity to extend it.
My experience with Marty gave me a practical lesson I have not forgotten:
• Forgiveness can be difficult. My decision was not effortless, and I do not want to pretend otherwise.
• Wounded pride can keep resentment alive. I needed to examine my reaction, not just remember Marty’s behavior.
• A different perspective can help. Paul’s question challenged me to look at the situation more honestly.
• Getting even is not the only option. When the opportunity came, I could choose a different response.
• Forgiveness can make room for something unexpected. In our case, it opened the door to a lasting friendship.
• I do not want an old grievance to decide how I treat someone today. I want my choices to reflect the mercy I value.
• We are not promised tomorrow. My mother’s words remind me not to postpone kindness while waiting for the perfect moment.

What My Mother Helped Me See
My mother’s advice did not erase the memory of what happened. It helped me choose what to do with it.
I could have turned Marty away. Instead, I welcomed the possibility of a different ending.
Now, when I think about that Camaro, the insurance quote, and the grudge I once carried, I also think about the conversations and friendship that followed.
… I am grateful I listened to Mom.