I couldn’t believe it. Not the words, themselves, but the tone of voice, the energy behind the words. I froze for a few seconds then felt tears well up in my eyes, although they didn’t flow. I was determined not to cry. I excused myself under the guise of wanting to mow the lawn, and I made a vow to myself to stay out of the house for a while.

I didn’t want to say something as a reaction or out of defensiveness. I didn’t want to speak unless I could be positive or centered or somehow constructive. And I couldn’t be any of these things at the moment. I was scared. Not because I felt personally threatened, but because I sensed a level of anger that was hard for me to fathom. And I didn’t want to be around the energy; this inner fist of emotion packed in a seemingly innocuous statement, “Don’t say that again.”

I had protested something that my partner had probably already heard more than once, and he bellowed out these words. Something else, I considered, must have been behind this reaction, a tone of measured menace. I wondered how my passing remark could have provoked such a reaction. I was shook up beyond words, not a common condition for me. While I could understand irritation at hearing a sentiment too frequently expressed, I could not understand how the timber of his voice could be so tightly coiled, or why I felt so untenably hot and cold at the same time.

I mowed the lawn. Silently. And then I went to the bank and then to the store and then to my health club. After pedaling in place for a half hour (a poignantly appropriate metaphor for how my mind was racing while my understanding of this short exchange didn’t seem to progress at all), I did some yoga poses, some hip opening stretches and a few deep breathing exercises, packed my gym bag and headed for home.

I came in through the basement where I found him attending to a cleaning and organizing project. I am sure I was not especially warm in my greeting. I knew I would have to say what was on my mind soon, and I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to say.

After dinner, we talked. More importantly, we listened. We both shared perspectives and ‘fessed up to some misconceptions we held. I admitted recent resentments about feeling he wanted to sway me to his point of view on a few things. He acknowledged that he had felt disappointment over the way I responded to him in some situations that felt similar to disappointments he felt in other relationships. He admitted to having unhealed wounds.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I am sorry I scared you…” He went on to identify one or two other things he felt bad about, exerting great care to choose precise words.

If I was frozen from shock at the anger I caught seven hours earlier, I was rendered utterly still and incapable of moving by the odd and unexpected vibration of love that penetrated me now. His words and feelings were completely integrated. Every syllable uttered came from a very deep place.

For a few moments, my mind jettisoned to a recent conversation I had with friends about apologies we’ve experienced that were false, that were anything but healing; situations when we felt obliged to verbalize an admission of guilt out of political correctness, or when the wording of a confession completely belied an expression of contrition. Instead of hearing “I’m sorry,” I recalled times when I’ve heard, “I am sorry you feel that way.”

And here I was receiving an apology that was so clearly heartfelt. Here, I was receiving a most special gift, a genuine request for forgiveness -– and that’s no small thing.