Reminding Ourselves to Forgive—Even After We’ve Said the Words
We often picture forgiveness as a single moment—not a journey. We imagine a moment of tears as each party repents and asks the other for forgiveness. We imagine hugs and handshakes. What we don’t usually imagine is a journey. But what if a journey is a more apt description? What if forgiveness isn’t only a moment, but also a journey of reminding ourselves of the forgiveness received and given? What if forgiveness is refusing revenge and bitterness?
Throughout middle school and high school, I had the same core group of friends. The group morphed and changed somewhat, but there were five of us who remained constant. We did everything together, and whenever the teachers allowed us to pick our own groups for activities and projects, we clung to each other. We ate lunch at the same table every day. We watched movies, read books, prayed, and volunteered together. We attended youth group and conferences together. We were inseparable.
Until, one day, we were not.
My senior year, I began a relationship with my first boyfriend (and now, my husband). Around the same time, I started to learn to drive, and my anxiety turned into a whole different beast I hadn’t imagined. Up to that point, I hadn’t ever considered my anxiety to be a real medical issue until my boyfriend explained to me that it was likely a mental illness. He encouraged me to see the doctor and my school counselor. I got medication for the first time, and as I learned more about myself and how I needed to heal, I made changes to my life—changes that I didn’t realize would completely change the course of my life.
As I made changes, my friends became angry. Between seeing me less because I gave part of my time to my boyfriend, and the changes I was making to lessen my anxiety, we had a falling out no one saw coming. Parents, teachers, and youth leaders were all shocked as they watched us yell and slam locker doors, change seating arrangements in class, and go days without speaking to one another. I did my best to never cry at school, but I wept more times than I can count in that year in my school hallways.
Because of this falling out, I spent my whole senior year of high school alone. My boyfriend was two and a half years older than me and attending community college. My other Christian friends were significantly younger than me or went to other schools. I walked the hallways, sat in classrooms, and ate lunch by myself for a whole year.
That wasn’t even the worst of it: In a few months, I knew I was going to Bible college where I would be sharing a room with two of those former friends. I called the school, but they told me there was nothing they could do because the rooms were all full. All I wanted to do was leave this dreadful past behind me, but I would have to face it anyway.
Once at college, I skulked into my bedroom past my (former) friends’ bedroom. We had to share a living room, a bathroom, and a closet together, and I was hoping that I could somehow avoid them.
But to my grateful surprise, they didn’t let me.
They took me aside and sought my forgiveness. In turn, I offered mine. We sat on the old carpet together in their bedroom and reconciled—something I thought was impossible.
They even became friends with my boyfriend. They stood beside me as my bridesmaids at my wedding. They visited me in all three of my homes and held my first child. They texted me to tell me they were praying for me after our following miscarriages. Between physical distance and life circumstances, we naturally drifted apart again—though this time with love still tying us together despite the distance.
Reading this story, it sounds beautiful and seamless. It seems like our reconciliation was a once and for all finished business, to never need smoothing out again. However, no relationship is like that. We still fought and had our differences. I got annoyed at how late they stayed up laughing next door to me, and they groaned at my early morning routine. We disagreed over theology and study habits and how to share our chores.
More than that though, I struggled with a lot of bitterness. I was often reminded of my year spent in isolation. At times I had nightmares that brought it all back to the front of my memory. Sometimes they would say or do something that reminded me of an action they had done with much different motivation a year prior. I found it hard to believe they really loved me some days, despite what their words said.
I thought forgiveness should be a “one and done” action. We said the words, hugged, cried, and decided to be friends. Yet here I stood, needing to remind myself often of that very reconciliation and their repentance. I had to remind myself of the words of forgiveness I had offered them. I had to rehearse not the wrongs they had done to me, but the good they had done since then. I had to remind myself of how things had changed—that we weren’t the same people we had been a year ago.
I thought this was a sign of personal failure. How could I struggle with so much bitterness? Yet the key was in that one word: struggle. I didn’t give into the bitterness and rage against my friends for past sins. I didn’t throw their shortcomings in their face. The feelings came, and I acknowledged their presence, but I didn’t allow myself to stay there. At times I did get snappy and rude, but when I recognized where it came from, I sought their forgiveness—again. Forgiveness is a journey and a battle, and I believe it is rarely a one-and-done event.
Jesus’s disciples wondered about the topic of forgiveness. One day, Peter asked Jesus, “Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?” Peter likely thought that was a pretty high number, because it was also the number of perfection and holiness. Yet Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy-seven times” (Matt. 18:21–22).
When we wrestle with bitterness and forgiveness in our hearts, each day, we’re following this command. We’re seeking to forgive those who have harmed us over and over again. It’s when we cling to bitterness, whether openly or inwardly, that we became like the unforgiving servant in Jesus’s parable. The unforgiving servant sought forgiveness for himself but refused to forgive those of a lesser debt against himself. When we hold onto bitterness, resentment, and seek revenge (even when it’s simply in being extra loud as we plod down the hall in the morning) we are no different. We expect God to forgive us and show us kindness despite our thousands of sins against his perfect righteousness, but refuse to forgive our friend who has sinned against us.
The unforgiving servant doesn’t war against himself to constantly forgive. If you are seeking to forgive every single day, you are on a path to healing. You are doing the work of forgiveness—even if it’s a battle, even if you shoo away thoughts of bitterness, even if you still ache from the pain they inflicted. Brad Hambrick in his wonderfully helpful book Making Sense of Forgiveness writes,
Forgiveness is what allows us to express hurt as hurt rather than hurt as anger. Even after we forgive, hurt still hurts. If the person who hurt us gets upset with us for still hurting, they haven’t really repented. Too often we view forgiveness as the culmination of a journey. But when I say, “I forgive you,” I am not saying, “Things are all better now.” I am saying, “I have decided I will not relate to your offense toward me differently.” Forgiveness is the start of a new journey. Forgiveness does not erase the past. When you forgive, you are not making a commitment not to feel hurt. You are making a commitment about what you will do with the hurt when it flares up. (p. 10)
Forgiveness doesn’t need to be a once and for all moment; it can be a day-by-day journey. Just as we seek God’s forgiveness regularly, we must remind ourselves of his forgiveness towards us.
If tension has grown thick briars of bitterness and resentment between you and a friend, don’t be afraid to make the first step forward like my friends took toward me. While I foolishly wanted to keep an awkward distance from them, they made the harder step of seeking me. They sought my forgiveness with humility, love, and compassion. You can do that too.
Or perhaps you’re on the other side, and though you’ve reconciled (with true admissions of wrong and steps towards repentance), you still feel a burning hurt inside that struggles to believe not only their words of forgiveness but also your own. Don’t give up that battle. Keep pressing forward in reminding yourself to forgive. This tilling of heart soil is hard work, but it is worth it to make a place where old relationships can flourish again.
Lara d’Entremont is a wife and mom to three from Nova Scotia, Canada. Lara is a writer and learner at heart—always trying to find time to scribble down some words or read a book. Her desire in writing is to help women develop solid theology they can put into practice—in the mundane, the rugged terrain, and joyful moments. You can find more of her writing at laradentremont.com.