Forgive

This is a tough subject, even for me.

I struggled while writing The Captive's Psalm. Even though I have forgiven, forgiveness doesn't erase the pain of unimaginable betrayal. Writing that book required diving so deeply into those memories that I experienced much of it all over again. There was even more I chose not to share because this was never meant to be a story about how awful someone was. It was always a story about a redeeming God.

Forgiveness doesn't mean we forget. It doesn't mean the pain magically disappears, and it certainly doesn't mean a relationship must be restored. As we recently covered in Luke 10, boundaries are important. Forgiveness and access are not the same thing.

When we experience repeated betrayal this profound, it feels as though you've found yourself in a boxing ring where there is no safety bell. You are knocked down over and over again until you can no longer stand, yet the blows keep coming. I have stood in the depths of that ring at the hands of someone I entrusted my life to. I know this pain. I know this level of hurt.

There are names and labels that exist for these experiences, but I am not here to give the enemy a platform. We do not emerge from darkness by staying focused on it. We emerge from darkness by walking toward the Light.

One of the hardest steps toward healing is forgiveness.

Please don't give up on me here. I promise this is not about giving those who hurt us a free pass. Forgiveness is about freeing my heart, and your heart, from a darkness that doesn't deserve to live rent-free within us.

We forgive for the person we were before the wounds. We forgive for the innocence that was stolen, for the trust that came naturally, for the joy that flowed freely before someone else's choices tried to redefine us. We forgive so healing can begin. We forgive so we can return to the person God created before another person's sin attempted to reshape us. If we emerge from their wreckage carrying even one thought, one habit, or one posture that resembles what was done to us, then they continue to occupy space they were never entitled to. My soul shouts a heart-wrenching no at that thought. No. I will not come out tainted. No. You may have caused me pain. You may have caused me to stumble. But your time is up. You do not get another second of my attention, my peace, or my life.

As I searched Scripture, trying to understand how a soul could emerge from devastation stronger instead of hardened, I came across something that stirred something deep within me. It felt like my spirit recognized it before my mind fully understood it.

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus tells us that the meek will inherit the earth. For years, I struggled with that statement because it seemed backwards. Then I began studying it through its linguistic and cultural context, and it completely changed my understanding of healing.

The Greek word translated as meek was often used to describe a powerful warhorse that had been trained for battle, yet remained perfectly disciplined and restrained. It describes strength under control—not weakness, passivity, or timidity. Jesus most likely taught in Aramaic, where the related idea carries the sense of softening what has become unnaturally hard, surrendering ourselves to God, and possessing a gentle yet unyielding heart.

That changed everything for me. There is a profound beauty in being capable, yet remaining sheathed. In knowing you possess the strength to retaliate, yet choosing gentleness instead. Forgiveness is one of the greatest expressions of strength under control. By surrendering the desire to force an outcome, we inherit something far greater: an unshakable peace that no longer depends on another person's choices. We become more like Christ. Our conscience becomes clearer. Our intimacy with God deepens. Most importantly, we are no longer controlled by the person who hurt us.

Unforgiveness has another cost. It blinds us to the ways trauma reproduces itself. Left unchecked, bitterness is often passed from one generation to the next. Forgiveness acts like a circuit breaker. By refusing to retaliate, we stop the spread of relational toxicity. It ends with us. By God's mercy, we pray that it ends before it ever reaches our children.

For me, forgiveness was a conversion of energy. I had to find a way to bring all of that anger, grief, and hurt into submission so it served God's work in me instead of consuming me. There was a great deal to forgive, not simply him but myself as well. I also had to forgive myself for allowing another person's choices to pull reactions out of me that I did not recognize or like. During the last two years of my marriage, and the two years that followed, I exhausted my body until my mind became quiet enough to hear God again.

That was my way. It may not be yours. If you don't yet know what your way is, ask God to show you. Perhaps it is serving in your church. Perhaps it is long walks, prayer, journaling, or simply sitting quietly in His presence. He knows exactly how He created your heart. He also knows exactly how to restore it.