The sins of the fathers

I've  never thought that children should pay for the sins of the fathers, but it happens more often than I care to admit.

Recently, I read an article about the children of Nazi soldiers and how these now-grown descendants are working hard to get to the truth about their infamous ancestors. With family trees obscured by years of lies, these adults, now in their late 40s and early 50s and 60s, not only have to confront the atrocities of their relatives but they have to reconcile that horrible knowledge with what they know about themselves.

Some of these children never married, never had children of their own, because they were so afraid they had inherited some sort of "monster gene" that could be passed along. Many children of Nazis have lived their lives in shame and fear of being found out.

I can't imagine paying daily for the sins of my father, but I'm about to get a front-row seat to how this works out for my own children.

In this case, they are going to pay a heavy price for the sins of their mother. Me.

I offended a friend whose children have been friends with my children since everyone was a toddler. Not only was I offensive in the first place, I remained so in the aftermath. In other words, even as I write this, I am still offensive.

I am having such a hard time understanding the deeper nature of the reasons why my actions were offensive that I've all but given up.

My children's friends will not be allowed to come over to play, even though none of them are at fault or have anything in any way to do with the disagreement between their mothers. I even went so far as to point out that it would be okay for the adults to be at odds as long as we let our kids be kids and at least have their friendship on an even keel.

That suggestion didn't go over too well. Naive on my part, I see that now.

My son asked me again today when the boy he calls his best friend would be coming over and I had to remind him that he'll  likely never see his buddy again -- at least not until they're both old enough to pick their own friends and drive themselves where they want to go.

He looked puzzled for a minute and said, "Why can't you just deal with your stuff and let us play? We have fun and that's what being a kid is all about."

I told him that sometimes no matter how you deal with things they don't work out and that I was sorry about him losing his friend. I told him that I guess it's my fault -- because apparently it is. "That's okay," he said solemnly. "It's your fault but I still love you."

More than anything else, I'm sorry for my children. I'm sorry for my friend's children.

They are all paying for the sins of the adults, and I think this is the most profound loss of all.