Theme -Forgiveness

Sean, a Michigan native, is a data scientist based in the Memphis area. Married for over twenty years, he’s a proud husband, father of three, and grandfather to one. For the past decade, he’s been a regular contributor to Spillit Memphis, a live storytelling show where he holds the honor of Storyteller in Residence. When he’s not crunching numbers, you’ll find him locked in a chess match or cheering on his favorite Detroit sports teams. Passionate, curious, and grounded in family, Sean brings both heart and insight to everything he does.

Story

Two things I believe: that no one is defined by the worst thing they’ve ever done, and that no matter how old you are, your inner child stays with you.

With those two things in mind, I often give people the benefit of the doubt. Someone cuts me off in traffic—I just assume they’re having a bad day. Someone flips me off—maybe their inner child is hurting. I’ve noticed over the years that this level of grace comes easier with people I have no relationship with.

I remember the last time I talked to my dad. It didn’t go well. He was upset because plans for him to travel from Detroit to Memphis and stay with my family for my son’s high school graduation had to change. Sometimes, my dad, in an attempt to get sympathy, would speak in a higher octave—almost like an adult baby—and in that voice, he said, “I feel slighted.”

I didn’t say anything at the moment, but I did think to myself: I felt slighted when we had to grow up poor because of your drug addiction, and you weren’t around. I felt slighted when you hit me out of anger. I felt slighted living in fear of you and shrinking inside myself for so many years. It reminded me of times growing up when I wished my dad was dead, because it seemed like his being dead would probably do us more good than him living, which wasn’t doing anything.

Not long after that last call, my dad would periodically call out of the blue, and I refused to pick up. At first, it was because I didn’t want to have the graduation conversation again. But even after the graduation, when he would call, I felt like talking to him was a waste of time. I had forgiven my dad for the past a long time ago. I felt like I got the gist of who he was, and I really didn’t need to know more or have many conversations.

One day, a different Benjamin Mosley called me—my older brother, who shares the same name as our dad. He told me in the most nonchalant way, “You might want to call or talk to our pops one last time. I know he’s been threatening to die for a while, but you don’t want to regret it.” My brother has always been easygoing, but despite his tone, I knew he was serious. From the time I was ten and he was eleven, we only ever referred to our dad as either “Benny” or “your dad.” Now he is calling him pops.

Again, I felt like I was good. I knew everything I needed to know. My dad did call a couple more times after that, but I still didn’t pick up.
A month passed, and I got another call from my brother. I remember, before answering, the chilling feeling that something I had been waiting on for 30 years was finally happening. My brother said, “Your dad had a heart attack, and he’s in the hospital. He’s on life support, and it doesn’t look good.” His condition was so far gone that, within a matter of days, we made the decision to pull the plug. It was official. The last time I spoke with my dad was the “I feel slighted” conversation. And I was good with that—at the time.

My dad was always reaching out to family members, and I believe his greatest desire was for his children to do the same. So, after his funeral, I started to reach out to family members who knew my dad better than I did. I have two half-sisters from my dad—Beaute and Liberty. Beaute had a different perspective on our father. Maybe because she met him later in life, she had a different relationship. After the funeral, while speaking with her, she said, “Dad told me that he was punished more harshly than his siblings.” That was something I didn’t know.

It turns out our dad was the youngest of his siblings and the product of an extramarital affair that cost my grandmother a husband. He also never had a relationship with his father, and my dad believed that, because of this, he was punished more often and more brutally. Until that moment, I assumed I knew everything I needed to know about my dad. That little bit of information gave me a crushing sense of sadness.
I started to imagine my dad as a boy—growing up and believing that his existence was not only a mistake but a source of pain for his family. Thinking, deep down, that your mother resented you and your biological father didn’t want to know you. With that in mind, I remembered all the calls he made before he died—and how I ignored them. I imagined it was no longer the dad I knew who called, but that same little-boy version of my father, reaching out, trying not to be a mistake, attempting to be loved—or at the very least, to be the father he wished he had. Maybe that’s where the baby-man voice came from—an external representation of his inner child.

Two years later, I continue to ask myself, “Why didn’t I answer one of those calls?” Some days I feel guilty and ashamed—because if it were anyone else, I would’ve given them the benefit of the doubt. I probably would’ve recognized their pain. Then, I think about how I would feel if my own kids didn’t want to talk to me. Some days I’m fine with the choice I made—because I didn’t know, and it’s not my fault. I vacillate between these two thoughts over and over.

Lately, I’ve been thinking, “How do I escape myself?”
With my dad gone, “How do I get closure?”
“Who is going to forgive me for never taking that last call?”

​The more I thought and prayed about it, God gave me an answer through scripture--Acts 16:22–33, to be specific:

And the multitude rose up together against them: and the magistrates rent off their clothes, and commanded to beat them. And when they had laid many stripes upon them, they cast them into prison, charging the jailor to keep them safely: who, having received such a charge, thrust them into the inner prison, and made their feet fast in the stocks. And at midnight Paul and Silas prayed, and sang praises unto God: and the prisoners heard them. And suddenly there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison were shaken: and immediately all the doors were opened, and every one's bands were loosed. And the keeper of the prison awaking out of his sleep, and seeing the prison doors open, he drew out his sword, and would have killed himself, supposing that the prisoners had been fled. But Paul cried with a loud voice, saying, Do thyself no harm: for we are all here.

So many times I’ve read this story and put myself in the position of Paul and Silas—praising God in spite of circumstances and persecution.
This time, God said, “Look at the jailer.” He was complicit in the wrong done to Paul and Silas—but also ready to punish himself for things outside his control. Paul doesn’t tell the jailer everything he did was right. But he does say: “Do yourself no harm.” Which can be interpreted as: “Yes, you were wrong. But there is grace for you to move on from your mistakes.”

Sometimes, I’m my own harsh judge and jailer—condemning myself and making sure I never forget or break free. Some days, I have to be reminded: There is grace for Sean– and Sean's inner child, too. ​