Looking for a happy fix

Immanuel looks at me and seems very happy. His broad arms pause on the threadbare armrests of the easy chair I bought in a thrift shop last year. Grand, massive. That is how Immanuel is sitting in the armchair. Like an intensely content and good-natured walrus.

“I never thought I would reach this point. You know how I was a few months ago. Skinny, exhausted, dazed. I lived like a blindfolded man in a dark room. I had no idea where I was, who I was and where I wanted to go,” says my visitor. His voice cracks, his eyes shine with pleasure, his body radiates pure bliss.

Immanuel and I have known each other since our boys were on football. We sat drinking coffee in the canteen all Saturday mornings. Every now and then we would go to the soccer field to see how our kids were doing. But if as soon as we could, we went back to the warmth of the establishment and continued talking. We had and have a click. Immanuel is the talker. I am the listener and the questioner. Immanuel is emotional, spontaneous, and outgoing. I am more rational, thoughtful, and introverted.

“Who could have ever thought that I would set foot in the church again? But I was convinced by my neighbor. She saw me suffer. She noticed that I did not leave the house anymore. She observed that I hardly had any contact with anyone anymore. I withered.”

Half a year ago fate struck for Immanuel. His youngest daughter was assaulted and raped in the city park. A few hundred meters from her apartment. After weeks of detective work, the police managed to catch the perpetrator. But the harm couldn’t be undone. The girl collapsed. And Immanuel was swallowed up in rage, in hatred of the criminal. He saw how his daughter suffered, how she broke down. And he stood beside her with his all-rending anger.

Immanuel called in sick, he locked himself in his house. Occasionally he would let me in. But everything around him was gray, moldy, sour. As if his own death had already set in.

“In church I heard about forgiveness. I was struck like lightning. Of course, I knew the idea of forgiveness. But it did not bother me. But now? It was like I could finally breath again. As if I moved out of a prison into the free world again. I was completely relieved.”

About four weeks ago, Immanuel felt so renewed and changed that he expressed the desire to have a first meeting with his daughter's rapist. And the encounter should take place this afternoon.

“Forgiveness is like a medicine, I have experienced. Everything that festers, wounds, chafes, and nags, is being healed,” he says softly and endearing. And I must admit, he has transformed. Not only has his old weight returned in a short time, Immanuel has become also more active, more lively, more enthusiastic.

Later in the afternoon, he rings my doorbell. He beams like a child who has just returned from a school trip. Frankly, I had and still have reservations about his intention to contact the young man who destroyed his daughter's life. But when I see my friend standing before me, so free, so grateful, I must admit that he had been right after all. Forgiveness apparently works like a medicine.

I offer him a cup of coffee and as usual he takes a seat in the second-hand armchair. Very quiet, rested and contended.

“You finally managed to forgive the perpetrator; I understand?” My voice sounds a bit unsteady. Like I still cannot quite believe it.

Immanuel looks at me with his big faithful eyes. It is like he doesn't recognize me right away, like I'm taking him out of a dream world. “Forgiveness? Oh yes, that is right. No, no, that did not happen. The moment I sat opposite him, I bent down and spat in his face so horribly hard and long that my throat is still dry. But what a relief, what a liberation that after all those months of waiting and inactivity, I could let that yo-yo know what I think of him.”

Immanuel yawns and stretches his arms. My second-hand armchair groans. She can hardly bear that much satisfaction.