To convict one would be to convict us all.

      I had a mother.  She left when I was twelve.  She wasn’t there when I needed her the most.  She had a mother, who worked full time, and spent most of her childhood living with people who weren’t even her own blood.  She wasn’t there when she needed her the most.   My grandmother had a mother.  She died when she was nine.  She wasn’t there when she needed her the most.
       I had a father.  He held his pride closer than he held his children.  He wasn’t there when I needed him the most.  He had a father, who died when he was ten.  He wasn’t there when he needed him the most.  He was raised by a mother, who worked and went to school full time to care for her five children.  She wasn’t there when he needed her the most.  She was the daughter of a criminal.  He spent his time in jail and making a shameful living.  He wasn’t there when she needed him the most.

       My children have a mother.  She spent her time chasing men to fill a void.  She wasn’t there when they needed her the most.

      I am the daughter of a mother who didn’t have a mother, who didn’t have a mother.  I am the daughter of a father who didn’t have a father, and was raised by a mother, who didn’t have a father.  I have born children who don’t have a father, and for many years, I wasn’t there when they needed me the most.
       What are we to do when we are the products of so many generations lacking in parents?  For many years, my heart stewed in anger so great towards my parents and the raw deal that I felt I got as a child.  I was so very bitter not having the affection and attention that I spent so many years craving in silence.  As a child, I was taken over by insecurity and fear.  As a teen, that shyness morphed into a boisterous and bitter hatred for anyone and everyone.  As a young lady, I sought out any man with open arms to find comfort through the night, and I kept them around for as long as I could, but it never lasted, and it never healed.  I have lived a reckless life, void of moral high ground, and full of self-destruction. 

       Now, at twenty-five years old, who do I blame… myself?  My parents?  God himself?

        No.

       Now, at twenty-five years old, I can look back at all my years growing up and look beyond myself to see the parents who raised me.  My parents became parents while they were yet children themselves - not only children, but broken children at best.  They were raised by broken-hearted parents, and not a single one had the knowledge or the resources to raise any child in an ideal manner, myself included.  We are all one in the same, my parents and I, and my grandparents alike.  Will I hang them at the gallows for the rest of their lives for not knowing any better?  At one time, I can say in all transparency, I would have liked to.  But, now, in due time, and as perspective continues to grow, I would have to hang myself as well, for I am as guilty and as innocent as they.

       I was a child born into an unfortunate life, as were they.  Who is there to blame if one was never taught any better, and when taught, couldn’t comprehend?  Only by the grace of God do we all live, and only by the grace of God will our eyes be opened to a better way of life.

 “Then Peter came up and said to him, “Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him?  As many as seven times?  Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy-seven times. ” (Matthew 18:21-22, ESV)