[mashshare]

I could barely breathe the first time I met him. He had grey, wavy hair on the sides and back of his head, an “I don’t care that it’s receding” hairline and confident eyes bigger than the western skies.

The distinguished man shook my hand and sized me up. Before I had a chance to spit out one of my hilarious and rehearsed get-to-know-you quips, he put his other hand on my shoulder and asked me if I could help him with his computer.

That simple request foreshadowed one of my life’s greatest lessons on forgiveness.

That simple request was also the beginning of a treasured friendship with one of the most honorable men I’ve ever known.

His name is Malcolm. But even in the eternities above, I suspect I’ll still call him “senator.” He is retired Senator Malcolm Wallop (R-Wyo.).

The senator was first elected to the Senate in 1976 alongside good friend, Senator Orrin Hatch (R-Utah). Senator Wallop represented Wyoming with a brand of intellectual cowboy dignity. He fought for limited government, a strong national defense and personal liberty. He was always in the right place at the right time to make a lasting difference on matters of policy and politics. Above all, he was a gentleman.

After retiring in 1995, Senator Wallop founded the nonprofit thinktank, Frontiers of Freedom (FOF). The group educated Congress and the public on many of the same issues that were his trademark on Capitol Hill.

After my own losing bid for Congress in 2000, I relocated to northern Virginia and took a position with FOF. Soon I was writing press releases, planning conferences and helping the senator with cell phones, laptops and iPods. I grew to love the hours I spent in his cozy Arlington, Va., home troubleshooting his latest technological headache. I rarely left without a story about lunch with Ronald Reagan or hunting with Dick Cheney.

One day as the senator was leaving Virginia for a week on his ranch in Wyoming, he called and asked me to address a major problem with the operating system on his laptop. I promised to take care of it while he was away.

The issue proved serious and required backing up his documents and reinstalling the operating system. I recall sitting in the leather chair in his home office and meticulously dragging his files and folders onto an external hard drive. When I was certain I had everything, I erased the laptop’s drive and reset it as if coming new out of the box.

Later I replaced his personal files to their original locations and took great pride that the bugs appeared to be fixed. I drove home and felt good knowing that a man I admired trusted me enough for such important work.

My phone rang a few days later. “Jason, it’s Malcolm. I’m home. Did you have any trouble with the computer?”

“No, sir. The bugs are solved.”

“Well done. Could you come over and help me find a few documents that seem to be missing? I’m sure they’re here somewhere.”

Cue the nausea.

The rest of the day is a blur of panic and prayer. I broke every speed limit between my office and his home to discover that a single folder of Microsoft Word documents and photos was missing. “What kind of documents are they?”

“Well,” he said calmly, “they’re reflections on my career, my family’s ranch, my personal history.”

Suddenly the room was spinning.

“And I’d tucked some photos in there too, just the ones that would go along with my memoirs.”

The following hours and days were excruciating. I barely slept and I couldn’t eat. I hired a company to recover the lost files. They were unsuccessful. I prayed morning, noon and night for an iMiracle.

When it was certain nothing further could be done, I emailed the senator my letter of resignation with my deepest desire to take full responsibility for my carelessness. My phone rang almost immediately.

“Absolutely not,” he said firmly. “Don’t be silly.”

I tried to object, but he politely cut me off. “These are just documents on a computer, Jason, and nothing is irreplaceable. I’ve been thinking I should start over anyway.”

Before we’d hung up, he’d apologized for putting me through such anxiety, for any concern my wife might have felt about me losing my job and for not being more careful about where he’d tucked that particular folder. It wasn’t the kind of conditional forgiveness that means forgive but don’t forget, nor forgive but keep reminding.

A day later, I was back working on another technology issue and hearing a story about the senator and the Malaysian prime minister.

He never once mentioned the episode again. There were no quips, no sarcastic jabs and no subtle reminders. For him, it never happened.

This good man died a few weeks ago at the age of 78. He leaves behind a legacy of military and public service, legislative accomplishments and many who were taught by example.

He also leaves behind a lesson and example of forgiveness I will always cherish. And though he might have chosen to forgive and forget, I will always remember.