I’m a sucker for an apology. Kick me till I’m down, tell me my mother was an ’amster and my father smelt of elderberries, then look me in the eye and say you’re sorry, and I will embrace you (at two metres’ distance) and reinstate you as my bestie.
So when I was shown a letter from Jonathan Fletcher to a victim saying he was ‘so, so’ (double-underlined) ‘sorry’, I wondered why others – who know him better and have spent far longer with him – believe that he isn’t. Of course, none of us can ultimately see into the heart of another – only God can judge, and we must let Him do that.
But many years ago I had cause to give considerable thought to both penitence and forgiveness. My husband Shaun’s employing church, despite its clear legal obligation to house us, failed to do so, rendering our family of seven, including two with registered disabilities and one under two, homeless for the best part of an academic year. The trauma was (and remains) almost indescribable. I am still barely capable of visiting the university city I once loved more than anywhere in the world, and seldom set foot in a church building for fear of the ensuing distress and debilitating depression.
