Who's to Blame?

There she sat, her pageboy cut chestnut hair framing her young, pale face. Her eyes scanned the room looking for what? We weren't sure. Then we noticed her eyes stop. That I'm thinking, I'm wondering, should I or shouldn't I? look came upon her countenance. She stood up from her table, you know the square kind with four chairs, one on each side. She scooched like a miniature Mata Hari over to the nearby booth and carefully but quickly moved the newspaper and sundry items from the booth to the table she had just vacated. Then she flew into the booth just in time to see her brother and mother come around the corner with breakfast. The innocent family members took their seats in the booth, and all three began to cheerfully eat bagels and sweet rolls.

We, the audience, sat on the edges of our mental seats and waited for Act I, Scene 2. We didn't have to wait long. A man, probably in his early sixties, rounded the corner, coffee and pastry in hand. He headed straight for the booth, then stopped short in dismay. He glanced at the booth beside the first one, gave his head a slight shake, then gazed back at the family enjoying breakfast in the first.

My friend and I exchanged quick, amused glances, then turned back to the scene playing out before us. By this time, the old man had noticed his newspaper on the table. He set his coffee down and took a seat, facing the booth! Though aiming a few disgruntled looks towards the unsuspecting mom in the booth, he began to eat, picked up his newspaper and opened it wide. There, I thought. He's just going to move on. Not so. He closed his newspaper and folded it in half. Then he said, loudly enough to be heard by the family in the booth - and us, for that matter, "Is there any particular reason you moved my things over here to this table?"

"Wha'? Hunh? Who, us?" the mom answered.

"Yes." He was sort of glaring now.

"You mean your stuff was on this table?" The woman was still perplexed.

"Yes, and someone moved it here," he continued. "Didn't you do it?"

If I had dog ears, I believe I would have heard squirming going on in that booth as the mom finally caught on. "Anna, did you move the man's things over there?"

"Mm-mm," we barely heard.

Well, the mom apologized, of course, but there was no swift movement to try to undo the wrong. The family went on eating, and the man took up his paper again.

We went on with our conversation, and were just beginning to think the play had ended when Mata Hari herself, red-faced and tentative, scooched up to the table and muttered, "I'm very sorry for moving your things, sir."

To which he replied, "Okay," and went back to his paper.

Being me, I thought, "There's a spiritual lesson in this!"
The man assumed the woman had done it. He couldn't imagine that it had happened any other way. But how wrong he was! The little girl's mama made her say she was sorry, and I guess it would've been a little awkward for the man to turn to the mom and say, "And I'm sorry for assuming it was you who did it." He probably did the best thing to just say, "Okay" and move on.
What about us, though? What about all the times we place blame on someone when we don't have all the facts? How many of us would need to scooch up to someone and say, "I'm sorry for assuming you were in the wrong"? I know I am quick to judge. I think I deserve to feel disgruntled, even angry for all the injustices in my life. Who's to blame? I want to know.
No wonder Jesus' model prayer included the lines, "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."