Can God Forgive Me? (Matthew 9:2)

Noble Doss dropped the ball. One ball. One pass. One mistake. In 1941 he let one fall. And it's haunted him ever since. "I cost us a national championship," he says.

The University of Texas football team was ranked No. 1 in the nation. Hoping for an undefeated season and a berth in the Rose Bowl, they played conference rival Baylor University. With a 7-0 lead in the third quarter, the Longhorn quarterback launched a deep pass to a wide-open Doss.

"The only thing I had between me and the goal," he recalls, "was 20 yards of grass."

The throw was on target. Longhorn fans rose to their feet. The sure-handed Doss spotted the ball and reached out, but it slipped through. Baylor rallied and tied the score with seconds to play. Texas lost their top ranking and, consequently, their chance at the Rose Bowl.

"I think about that play every day," Doss admits.

Not that he lacks other memories. Happily married for more than six decades. A father. Grandfather. He served in the navy during World War II. He appeared on the cover of Life magazine with his Texas teammates. He intercepted 17 passes during his collegiate career, a university record. He won two NFL titles with the Philadelphia Eagles. The Texas High School Football Hall of Fame and the Longhorn Hall of Honor include his name.

Most fans remember the plays Doss made and the passes he caught. Doss remembers the one he missed. Once, upon meeting a new Longhorn head coach, Doss told him about the bobbled ball. It had been 50 years since the game, but he wept as he spoke.¹

Memories of dropped passes fade slowly. They stir a lonely fear, a fear that we have disappointed people, that we have let down the team, that we've come up short. A fear that, when needed, we didn't do our part, that others suffered from our fumbles and bumbles. Of course, some of us would gladly swap our blunders for Doss'. If only we'd merely dropped a pass. If only we'd merely disappointed a football squad.

I converse often with a fellow who, by his own admission, wasted the first half of his life. Blessed with more talent than common sense, he made enemies and money at breakneck speed. Now he's the stuff of which sad country songs are written. Ruined marriage. Angry kids. His liver functions as if it's been soaked in vodka. (It has.) When we talk, his eyes dart back and forth like a man hearing footsteps. His past pursues him like a posse.

Our conversations return to the same orbit: "Can God ever forgive me? He gave me a wife; I blew it. He gave me kids; I blew it."

I try to tell him, "Yes, you failed, but you aren't a failure. God came for people like us."

He absorbs my words the way the desert absorbs a downpour. But by the next time I see him, he needs to hear them again. The parched soil of fear needs steady rain.

I correspond with a prisoner. Actually, he does most of the corresponding. He has three to five years to reflect on his financial misdealing. Shame and worry take turns dominating the pages—shame for the mistake, worry about the consequences. He's disappointed everyone he loves. Including God. Especially God. He fears he's outsinned God's patience.