I think one of the hardest things we are called to do in the Christian life is forgive.  At least, it has certainly been one of the hardest things for me.

I recently finished reading a book by R. T. Kendall called Total Forgiveness, and if you're someone who struggles with forgiveness the way I do, I cannot recommend this book enough. It has challenged much of what I thought I understood about forgiveness, and it has caused me to look more closely at what it actually means to forgive someone from the heart.

For much of my life, forgiveness has been a subject I would rather avoid.

It's not that I haven't understood its importance. I've known what Scripture says about forgiveness. I've known that God commands us to forgive others, just as He has forgiven us. And I've certainly had my seasons of working through it. In fact, if you've followed this blog for any length of time, you've probably read more than a few posts about my struggles in this particular area.

But here's how it usually goes. Something happens that forces me to confront unforgiveness in my own heart. I spend time praying about it, reading Scripture, and working through the emotions surrounding whatever has hurt me. Eventually, I reach a place where I feel I've made some progress, and I'm more than happy to move on to another subject.

And then, sooner or later, God brings me right back to forgiveness.

Sometimes it's through something I read. Sometimes it's through a sermon or a conversation. Sometimes it's through an unexpected reminder of something I thought I had already dealt with. And sometimes it's simply that familiar conviction in my heart that tells me there is still work to be done.

I've become quite skilled at finding other things to focus on. There are so many wonderful subjects in Scripture, after all. Surely we could spend a little more time talking about faith, or joy, or God's promises, or practically anything other than forgiveness.

But God, in His faithfulness, continues to bring me back to the very place I would rather avoid.  And I think I'm finally beginning to understand why:

Forgiveness is a daily decision. You don't just do it once. You do it for the rest of your life.

Forgiveness isn't something we can simply recite out loud, declare finished, and check off our spiritual to-do list. We can say the words, "I forgive you," and still carry an enormous amount of anger, resentment, and bitterness in our hearts. We can convince ourselves that we've moved on, only to discover that the mention of someone's name or the memory of something that happened can bring all those old emotions rushing back.

Forgiveness isn't ultimately about the words coming out of our mouths. It's about what's happening in our hearts.  

Jesus has always been interested in our hearts far more than the words we recite. He's not particularly impressed by our ability to say the right things, appear spiritually mature, or perform the outward actions of obedience while inwardly remaining unchanged. He wants something much deeper. He wants to transform us from the inside out.

That kind of transformation takes time, at least it certainly does for me.  But, it is worth my focus because freedom is on the other side.  In fact, forgiveness can almost be considered a selfish pursuit.

Think about it. Living with unforgiveness can be absolutely miserable. It consumes our thoughts, steals our peace, creates stress, and keeps us emotionally connected to people and circumstances we would desperately like to leave behind. We can spend years replaying conversations, revisiting injustices, and imagining how things should have happened differently. Meanwhile, the people who hurt us may have moved on with their lives, completely unaware of how much space they continue to occupy in ours.

So perhaps there's nothing wrong with beginning this journey because we're simply tired of living that way.

Perhaps we want to forgive because we want to sleep peacefully at night. We're tired of being angry. We don't want yesterday's hurts to determine tomorrow's happiness. We want to wake up in the morning and look forward to what God has planned for us instead of immediately remembering everything that went wrong.

If that's where the journey begins, I think that's okay.

The beautiful thing about God is that He can take our desire for relief and use it to lead us toward something far greater. What begins as a desperate attempt to find a little peace can become a lifelong journey of surrender, obedience, and spiritual growth.

And forgiveness takes many different forms.

Sometimes we have to forgive others for what they've done to us. Sometimes we have to forgive ourselves for what we've done to others. Sometimes we're working through pain we never caused, never asked for, and certainly never deserved. Other times, we're facing the consequences of our own mistakes and learning how to receive the very grace we've so freely encouraged others to accept.

Sometimes forgiveness involves a single painful event. Other times, it involves years of accumulated hurts, broken trust, disappointment, or loss.  And sometimes, just when we think we've finally made peace with something, we discover another layer of hurt we didn't even know was there.

If you're walking through a divorce, grieving a loss, recovering from trauma, navigating a major life change, or simply struggling to make peace with something that happened in your past, I would encourage you to begin having an honest conversation with yourself about forgiveness.

Not the kind of conversation where you tell yourself to get over it, forgive the person, and move on. I don't think forgiveness is nearly that simple. We cannot always change the condition of our hearts by snapping our fingers and deciding we should feel differently.

But perhaps we can begin by becoming willing.

Maybe that means reading a book about forgiveness. Maybe it means opening your Bible and spending time studying what Jesus actually taught about it. Maybe it means setting aside a few minutes every morning to sit quietly before the Lord with one very specific purpose: to ask Him to help you forgive.

Not to pretend the hurt never happened. Not to excuse what someone else did. Not to force yourself into a relationship that is no longer healthy. But simply to begin allowing God into those places of your heart that you've been protecting, avoiding, or refusing to surrender.

And perhaps the most important thing we can do is stop treating forgiveness like something that earns us a gold star.  I know I've been guilty of that. I've said I've forgiven someone, felt reasonably good about my spiritual accomplishment, and mentally checked the box. There. I did it. Surely we can move on now.

But that's not what this is about.  We're not pursuing forgiveness to earn a gold star. We're pursuing forgiveness because we want to be free.

We don't want to spend the rest of our lives looking backward, allowing anger to slowly harden into bitterness. We don't want painful memories to dictate our emotions or rob us of the joy God has placed right in front of us. We don't want to remain trapped in a prison of our own resentment when Christ has already made a way for us to live differently.

And maybe, somewhere along the way, we finally come to God with a different kind of prayer.

Lord, You know what is better for me than I do. You know what I've been carrying, and You know how difficult it is for me to let it go. But if You're asking me to lay this down, then I need Your help. I can't change my heart on my own. I'm willing to begin, but I'm going to need You to show me how.

I think that's where the real journey of forgiveness begins.  Not with a declaration that we've finally mastered something difficult. And certainly not with the expectation that we'll never struggle with it again.

It begins with a willingness to let God change us so that the past no longer has the power to determine our future.

The Hidden Cost of Unforgiveness

If freedom is what we're after, perhaps we should spend a little time considering what we're actually trying to become free from. What exactly is unforgiveness doing to us? What happens when we continue carrying anger, resentment, bitterness, and regret over things that have happened in our lives? I think we sometimes underestimate just how much unforgiveness can affect us because we tend to think of it as something that exists primarily in our thoughts and emotions. But the consequences can reach into nearly every area of our lives, often affecting us in ways we don't even recognize.

One of the most immediate consequences of unforgiveness is the tremendous amount of stress it can create. Have you ever noticed how your body responds when you begin thinking about something that makes you angry? Maybe your shoulders tighten, your stomach begins to hurt, or your heart starts beating a little faster. You can be sitting peacefully in your own home, having an otherwise perfectly pleasant day, when suddenly a memory surfaces that changes everything. Nothing has actually happened in that moment. The person who hurt you may be hundreds of miles away, and the circumstances may have occurred years ago, but your body can respond as though the threat is happening all over again. 

Our bodies are remarkably sensitive to stress, and when we experience it, our nervous systems release hormones such as adrenaline and cortisol. While these responses are designed to protect us in difficult situations, chronic stress can contribute to problems with sleep, blood pressure, and cardiovascular health.

I find that particularly troubling when I consider how much of the stress we experience can come from continually revisiting things that have already happened. Someone else's poor decision, hurtful words, or betrayal may have caused tremendous pain in our lives, but when we repeatedly rehearse that pain, we can find ourselves suffering from the same offense long after it originally occurred. 

And sometimes the person we're refusing to forgive is ourselves. We replay our mistakes, revisit decisions we wish we could change, and punish ourselves for things we said, things we did, or things we failed to do. We may have already asked God for forgiveness, and yet we continue carrying guilt as though our suffering will somehow make up for what happened. The unfortunate truth is that the past doesn't change because we continue punishing ourselves for it. We simply become exhausted from carrying something that was never meant to consume the rest of our lives.

Another consequence of unforgiveness is the extraordinary amount of emotional energy it consumes. I think one of the most difficult things about being hurt by someone is our desire for that person to make things right. We want an apology, an explanation, or at the very least some acknowledgment that what happened was wrong. We want the person who hurt us to understand how deeply their actions affected us, take responsibility for the damage, and somehow give back what was taken. And I don't think those desires are necessarily unreasonable. There's nothing wrong with wanting someone to recognize that they've hurt us. The problem comes when our ability to find peace becomes dependent upon whether or not they ever do.

What happens when the apology never comes? What happens when the person refuses to take responsibility, or when they move forward with their life while we're still trying to make sense of what happened to ours? We can spend an enormous amount of emotional energy trying to collect something from someone who cannot, or simply will not, pay us back. We rehearse conversations in our minds, imagine what we would say if we had another opportunity, and think about all the things they should have done differently. We wait for some indication that they finally understand, and sometimes we wait for years. 

But the difficult truth is that even if someone sincerely apologizes, they cannot necessarily undo the damage. They cannot return the years we've lost, erase painful memories, or make everything exactly as it was before. Those are wounds that only Christ can truly heal, and when we make our peace dependent upon another person's willingness to make things right, we place an extraordinary amount of power into their hands.

Think about how strange that really is. Someone has already hurt us, and perhaps they've taken something from us that we can never get back. Yet by refusing to release our resentment until they satisfy our demands, we're allowing that same person to continue influencing our peace and happiness. We're giving them control over something they should never have been entrusted with in the first place. I don't know about you, but when I look at unforgiveness from that perspective, it seems like a terribly expensive price to pay for holding on to something that isn't making my life any better.

I also think unforgiveness can cause us to settle for far less than the life God wants us to experience. God has given us an entire life to live, filled with relationships to enjoy, people to love, opportunities to pursue, and countless ways He wants to work in and through us. Yet we can become so consumed with what went wrong that we lose sight of everything that could still go right. 

We settle into resentment because anger has become familiar, and sometimes familiarity feels safer than the uncertainty of moving forward. We build walls around our hearts, convincing ourselves that if we never allow anyone close enough to hurt us again, we'll somehow protect ourselves from experiencing that kind of pain in the future. And while those walls may offer some protection, they can also keep us from experiencing the very relationships, opportunities, and blessings that God may still have waiting for us.

God is good, and I believe He loves His children enough to ask difficult things of us when He knows those things are ultimately for our good. When He commands us to forgive, I don't believe He's asking us to pretend that what happened was acceptable, dismissing the pain we've experienced, or suggesting that the wrongdoing didn't matter. He understands better than we do what holding on to bitterness can eventually do to our hearts. He knows how resentment can change the way we see other people, how disappointment can make us suspicious and defensive, and how easily our hearts can become hardened when we continually rehearse the ways we've been wronged. Perhaps one of the reasons He asks us to forgive is because He knows how much of the life He's given us can be lost when we're consumed with the things we cannot change.

And that brings me to what I think may be one of the greatest consequences of unforgiveness: it keeps us living in the past instead of moving forward into the future. Think about driving a car. We have a windshield that takes up nearly the entire front of the vehicle, while the rearview mirror is relatively small. Both serve an important purpose, of course. We need to be aware of what's behind us, and sometimes we need to glance backward to understand where we've been or recognize something that might affect where we're going. But can you imagine trying to drive down the highway while staring exclusively into the rearview mirror? You wouldn't get very far before something went terribly wrong, and yet I think that's exactly how forgiveness take control of our lives.

We become so focused on what happened behind us that we can barely see what's happening in front of us. We revisit old conversations, analyze decisions that cannot be changed, imagine different outcomes, and wonder what our lives might look like if someone had made a different choice. We think about what should have happened, what could have happened, and what we wish had happened, all while life continues moving forward without us. The difficult thing about the past is that no matter how much time we spend thinking about it, we cannot change it. We cannot go back and make someone treat us differently, undo a betrayal, prevent a loss that has already occurred, or rewrite the circumstances that brought us to where we are today. We can learn from the past, grieve what we've lost, and acknowledge that some things were terribly unfair, but we cannot go back and live those moments differently.

What we can do is decide how we're going to live today. God has given us the opportunity to make different decisions, develop healthier relationships, grow in wisdom, and discover what He wants to do with the life that is still in front of us. 

That doesn't mean we have to forget what happened or pretend that painful experiences haven't shaped us. Sometimes remembering is necessary because it helps us recognize patterns, establish healthy boundaries, and avoid repeating the same mistakes. But there is an enormous difference between remembering the past and allowing ourselves to remain trapped in it. One helps us move forward with greater wisdom, while the other keeps us emotionally attached to circumstances we no longer have the power to change.

I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking in the rearview mirror. I don't want the mistakes of other people, or even my own mistakes, to determine the direction of my future. I don't want to become so familiar with disappointment that I stop expecting God to do something good in my life, and I certainly don't want to reach the end of my life and discover that I spent years holding on to something I could never change. There is too much life left to live, too much joy still to experience, and too much that God may yet want to accomplish through me to spend all my time looking backward.

None of this means forgiveness is easy, and it certainly doesn't mean we can simply decide to stop hurting. There are experiences that require tremendous time, prayer, and healing to work through, and I don't believe God expects us to pretend otherwise. But I do think it's worth asking ourselves some difficult questions about what our unwillingness to forgive may be costing us. How much peace have we surrendered? How much energy have we spent? How many opportunities for joy have we overlooked because our attention was consumed with something that happened yesterday, last year, or even decades ago?

And perhaps, once we begin to understand what unforgiveness is taking from us, we can begin to consider a much more hopeful option.

What If We Chose Freedom?

Now that we've considered the things unforgiveness is costing us, wouldn't it make sense that choosing forgiveness could open the door to something entirely different?

What if, instead of focusing on everything we're trying to leave behind, we began thinking about everything we might be moving toward?

Have you ever experienced one of those rare, beautiful days when everything just seemed peaceful? I've had a few of them throughout my life, days when I wasn't particularly worried about anything, when my mind wasn't racing through all the things that could go wrong, and when I simply felt an extraordinary sense of peace that I couldn't quite explain. Nothing particularly remarkable had to happen to make the day special. There wasn't necessarily a major accomplishment, an exciting event, or even an answer to something I'd been praying about. I was simply content, enjoying the life God had given me, without feeling the need to worry about yesterday or tomorrow.

When I think about those days, I realize that peace, at least in my own life, often comes when I'm no longer being consumed by anger and fear. And I think those two emotions are more closely connected to unforgiveness than we sometimes realize. When we've been deeply hurt, we don't just become angry about what happened. We can also become afraid that it will happen again. We begin looking for warning signs, questioning people's intentions, and protecting ourselves against the possibility of experiencing that same pain in the future. Before long, we're not simply carrying resentment over something that happened in the past. We're allowing that experience to shape how we approach everything that lies ahead.

Now imagine what life might feel like if we were no longer living that way.

Imagine laying your head on your nice, comfortable pillow at night and knowing that, yes, people have done things that hurt you, and yes, you've made mistakes that have hurt other people, but those experiences no longer have to fill your heart with anger, guilt, or fear. Imagine being able to acknowledge what happened without immediately feeling that familiar knot in your stomach or the tension beginning to build in your shoulders. The circumstances haven't necessarily changed, and the people involved may never have made things right, but something within you has changed. You've begun to trust God with the things you cannot control, and you're no longer spending every evening fighting battles that happened years ago.

What a difference that could make in the way we experience everyday life. Instead of spending our nights replaying painful conversations or worrying about what someone might do next, we might finally find ourselves able to rest. As the constant cycle of anger and stress begins to ease, our bodies may benefit as well. We may sleep better, feel less physically tense, and experience some of the health benefits that can come from reducing chronic stress. Perhaps we'll even discover that we have more energy to exercise, pursue a hobby, or enjoy the simple pleasures of life because we're no longer so emotionally exhausted.

And what would happen to our thoughts if we weren't continually revisiting things that have already happened? What would we think about instead?

I suspect we'd begin noticing a great deal more of what's happening right in front of us. We'd have more room in our minds to appreciate the people who love us, the opportunities God is giving us, and the countless little blessings that are so easy to overlook when we're preoccupied with something painful. We'd be more present in conversations, more attentive to the beauty around us, and perhaps more willing to recognize the ways God is working in our lives. Instead of waking up and immediately remembering what went wrong yesterday, we might begin our mornings wondering what wonderful things God has in store for us today.

And what about forgiving ourselves?

I think this may be one of the most difficult forms of forgiveness because we know exactly what we've done. We remember the decisions we made, the words we spoke, the opportunities we missed, and the things we wish we could go back and do differently. Sometimes we can be remarkably gracious toward other people while remaining absolutely merciless toward ourselves. We may believe that God has forgiven us, but we continue punishing ourselves as though feeling miserable for another few years will somehow make us worthy of His grace.

But what would life look like if we finally stopped doing that?

What if we could look back on our mistakes, acknowledge them honestly, take responsibility where necessary, and then allow ourselves to move forward? What if that sick feeling in the pit of our stomach, the one that comes from shame, regret, or even self-hatred, no longer followed us through our days? What if we began seeing ourselves not simply as the sum of everything we've done wrong, but as people who have been forgiven, redeemed, and given the opportunity to grow into something new?

I think there would be an extraordinary amount of freedom in that.

And imagine the energy we'd have available if we stopped waiting for other people to give us the apologies we so desperately want. We wouldn't have to spend hours rehearsing what we'd say if we ever had the opportunity to confront them. We wouldn't have to continually wonder whether they understood what they did or whether they regretted their decisions. We could acknowledge that what happened was wrong, recognize that we may never receive the explanation or restitution we deserve, and entrust the matter to God. Instead of allowing someone else's willingness to apologize to determine whether or not we get to enjoy our lives, we could begin finding peace that doesn't depend upon their cooperation.

Consider someone who has gone through a painful divorce after discovering that their spouse was unfaithful. The betrayal may have changed nearly everything about the life they thought they were going to have. Perhaps they've spent years trying to recover from the loss, rebuild their confidence, and make sense of what happened. Then, somewhere down the road, God brings another person into their life, someone who is kind, trustworthy, and genuinely interested in building a healthy relationship.

What happens if they carry all the anger, suspicion, and fear from the previous relationship into the new one?

The new person may have done absolutely nothing to deserve that distrust, but suddenly they're living under the shadow of someone else's mistakes. Every innocent misunderstanding becomes a potential warning sign. Every disappointment feels like the beginning of another betrayal. Instead of allowing the new relationship to develop on its own merits, the person who was hurt finds themselves continually comparing it to what happened before.

That's one of the saddest things about unforgiveness. It doesn't just affect our relationship with the person who hurt us. It can affect relationships with people who had absolutely nothing to do with the original offense.

Of course, forgiveness doesn't mean we abandon wisdom or ignore warning signs. We should learn from our experiences, establish healthy boundaries, and recognize that trust is something people demonstrate through their actions. But there's an enormous difference between approaching a new relationship with wisdom and approaching it with the expectation that we're going to be hurt again. We cannot become the healthiest, most loving versions of ourselves if we're continually allowing the mistakes of someone from our past to govern the way we treat people in our future.

And that makes me wonder something else.

What if the life we've been longing for is actually waiting in front of us, but we're so busy looking backward that we haven't noticed it?

What if God has new relationships, new opportunities, new experiences, and new ways for us to serve Him, but we're so accustomed to living with resentment that we cannot imagine letting our guard down long enough to receive them? What if we've become so comfortable with anger that we don't even recognize how much space it's occupying in our hearts? And what if some of the very things we're holding on to for protection are actually keeping us from experiencing the peace and joy we've been asking God to give us?

Sometimes, in order to take hold of something new, we have to be willing to let go of something old.

When I begin thinking about forgiveness from that perspective, my attitude toward the entire subject starts to change. Instead of approaching God with a reluctant sigh and asking how many more times I'm going to have to work through the same painful emotions, I find myself wanting to ask Him an entirely different question.

Lord, how quickly can I lay this unforgiveness down?

If God has something wonderful planned for the next chapter of my life, I certainly don't want to miss it because I'm too busy wishing the previous chapter had been written differently.

God is extravagant in His goodness toward His children. I've seen His faithfulness in my own life, sometimes in the most unexpected ways, and I know that His ability to bring beauty out of difficult circumstances is far greater than my ability to imagine how He's going to accomplish it. That doesn't mean everything will work out exactly the way I want, or that following Him will somehow protect me from future disappointment. But it does mean I can trust that He is good, that His purposes are good, and that the things He asks me to surrender are never more valuable than the One asking me to surrender them.

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

What I find especially beautiful about this verse is the circumstances in which it was originally spoken. God was speaking to His people during their exile in Babylon. They had experienced tremendous loss, their lives had been disrupted, and the future they had imagined for themselves looked nothing like the reality they were living. Yet even in the middle of those difficult circumstances, God reminded them that He had not forgotten them and that their story was not finished.

I think there's something deeply encouraging about that.

God's good purposes for His people were not limited to the years before their lives fell apart. He still had plans for them in the middle of their suffering, and He would remain faithful to His promises even when their circumstances seemed hopeless. And while that promise was given to Israel in a particular moment in history, it reminds me of something we see throughout Scripture: our failures, disappointments, and painful circumstances do not place us beyond the reach of God's grace or His ability to work in our lives.

I don't believe God has only one good season planned for us, and that if something goes terribly wrong, we've somehow missed our opportunity to experience His goodness. He continues working in us and through us throughout our lives. No matter how deeply we've been hurt, how many mistakes we've made, or how far our circumstances have drifted from what we originally imagined, there is still a future in which we can walk with Him, experience His peace, and discover new ways to live out His purposes.

But we have to be willing to follow where He leads, even when that means laying down something we've been carrying for a very long time.

Forgiveness is one of those places where our willingness matters tremendously. We cannot necessarily make the pain disappear overnight, and we may need to surrender the same hurt to God more times than we'd like to admit. But we can choose to begin. We can make time to pray, study what Scripture teaches about forgiveness, ask God to soften the places in our hearts that have become hardened, and continue returning to Him whenever those old feelings resurface.

It's worth the work. It's worth the time, the energy, the prayer, and the uncomfortable process of allowing God to show us the things we'd sometimes rather not see. The goal isn't simply to become people who are better at forgiving. The goal is to become people who are increasingly free to live the lives God has given us, without allowing the pain of yesterday to steal the joy of today or the hope of tomorrow.

I picture unforgiveness as a great brick wall standing between us and the life God is calling us toward. We've spent so much time standing on one side of it, examining every brick, remembering how it got there, and convincing ourselves that it's simply part of the landscape, that we've almost forgotten there's an entire world waiting on the other side.

But what if we didn't have to stay there?

What if, with God's help, we could finally begin making our way over that wall, leaving behind the resentment we've carried and discovering the freedom that's been waiting for us all along?

I don't know about you, but I'm ready to scale that wall.

A  few years ago, my son and I were training to get in shape by running together. This wasn't my first experience with running. I've gone through a few seasons in my life when I ran quite a bit, completing several half marathons and, at one point, even training for and finishing a full marathon. I can safely say I've checked that one off the list, and I don't have any burning desire to do it again. But getting in shape for a 5K with my son sounded like a good idea, so we decided we would train for one together.

Why on earth we made this commitment during the absolute coldest weeks of winter, I don't know, but apparently that's just when inspiration struck. We don't own a treadmill, and I hate running on treadmills anyway, so our only real option was to bundle up and head outside onto the country roads. After a particularly freezing run, we finally made our way back into the house with numb hands, numb faces, and somehow still smiling.

"How are you doing?" I asked him.

"I feel great."

It's funny how endorphins can make a person forget they're hypothermic.

"Mom, you know something?" he said. "There are biblical lessons in running."

"How so?" I asked.

"When we ran up the hill, I just had to push through it even though I felt like I couldn't make it. It's like...you've gotta push through your problems even when you feel like you can't make it."

"I agree with you," I said. "And sometimes when you feel the worst, you're actually closer to the top of the hill than you think."

"I know!" he responded.

I smiled because what I didn't tell him was that I'd learned that same lesson years ago. Sometimes with teenagers, you just need to let them discover things for themselves.

I remembered some of those long training runs I'd done years before, especially the ones when I was so tired I wouldn't even look up. Looking toward the top of the hill only reminded me how much further I had to go, so I would put my head down, watch my feet hit the pavement, and pray.  Sometimes I would just say Jesus' name over and over.  When you're around mile twenty of a long run, sometimes that's all you've got. You aren't thinking about finishing the marathon anymore. You're thinking about taking one more step, and then another one after that.

Eventually, I would look up and realize I had made it to the top. The hill that had looked impossible from the bottom hadn't killed me after all. I hadn't needed enough strength at the bottom to conquer the entire hill. I had only needed enough strength to take the next step, and along the way, God supplied what I didn't think I had.

Maybe that's why my son's observation stayed with me. There are seasons in our lives that feel a lot like standing at the bottom of one of those hills. We look at what's ahead of us and wonder how we're possibly going to make it. The battle feels too big, we're tired before we've even reached the hardest part, and everything in us wants to stop. God doesn't always show us from the bottom how we're going to get to the top. Sometimes He simply asks us to trust Him enough to keep moving.

There's a story in 2 Chronicles 20 that reminds me of this. King Jehoshaphat and the people of Judah found themselves facing an enormous army, and Jehoshaphat was afraid. He didn't pretend otherwise. Instead, he turned toward God, and God's answer was remarkable:

"Do not be afraid or discouraged because of this vast army. For the battle is not yours, but God's."

What is very interesting is what God told them to do next. If the battle belonged to Him, you might expect Him to tell them to stay home and wait while He took care of everything. Instead, He told them to go out and face it.

"Take up your positions; stand firm and see the deliverance the Lord will give you.... Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. Go out to face them tomorrow, and the Lord will be with you."

The battle belonged to God, but they still had to walk toward it. They had to show up, take their positions, and stand firm while trusting God to do what they couldn't do for themselves.

Maybe that's one of the lessons my son was discovering on that freezing country road. Faith doesn't always mean knowing how you're going to make it to the top of the hill. Sometimes faith means keeping your eyes on Jesus and taking the next step when you're absolutely convinced you don't have another one in you. Then, somehow, you look up and realize you're standing somewhere you weren't sure you could ever reach.

Not because you were strong enough to conquer the hill, but because you were never climbing it alone.

Taking My Eyes Off The Hill

God's Faithfulness Is Greater 

There are certain things I expect to see when I go to Florida. The ocean, obviously. Palm trees. Beautiful sunrises over the water. Maybe a dolphin if we're lucky. And if we're really lucky, perhaps a manatee.

What I wasn't expecting was George.

We stayed in a beautiful Airbnb right on the water during our trip to Florida. One of my favorite parts of the week was getting up early in the morning and sitting with my mother overlooking the water. We would watch the sun come up and listen to the sounds of the ocean while the rest of the house slowly began to wake up. We spotted a few dolphins during the week, and my kids even managed to see a manatee, although somehow I missed it.

But there was another form of wildlife that made absolutely certain I didn't miss him.

He was a snowy egret, and it didn't take us long to realize that this particular bird was quite comfortable around the house. In fact, he seemed a little too comfortable. I took a picture of him and sent it to the owner of the Airbnb and asked if, by any chance, he had a name.

He did.

His name was George.

Apparently George had taken quite a liking to the property, although I'm not sure "liking" was quite the right word. George seemed to believe he had some sort of standing reservation.

Every morning, he would show up outside the window and wait to be fed. He didn't squawk. He didn't make a scene. He simply stood there and stared at us with the quiet confidence of someone who knew that breakfast would eventually be served. And eventually, it was.

After receiving a few scraps, George would fly away and go about whatever business occupies the day of a snowy egret. But then dinner would come.

And so would George.

The house had a beautiful sunroom surrounded by windows, with a table in the middle where we often ate our meals. We would sit around the table eating dinner while George stood on the other side of the glass watching us, with his beak against the window. And watching us. And watching us.

George was remarkably patient. He apparently understood that if he stood there long enough, eventually one of us would become so overcome with guilt that we would get up from the table and find him something to eat.

His strategy was remarkably effective.

A few days into the trip, George acquired a sidekick. A seagull began showing up with him. George tolerated the seagull, although "tolerated" is probably the best word for their relationship. He didn't seem particularly thrilled about sharing his territory, or his dinner, but he allowed the seagull to hang around.

And then, on about the third day, things became even more interesting.

A great blue heron arrived.

Unlike George, the heron wasn't particularly interested in the little scraps we were handing out. A bird that size really needed an entire fish. But he did seem extremely interested in everything else happening on the property. He walked slowly around the yard, back and forth, watching George, watching the seagull, watching us, and generally giving the impression that someone needed to be supervising the entire operation.

So I named him the Sheriff.

By the middle of the week, we had assembled the strangest little cast of characters: George the snowy egret waiting outside the window for breakfast and dinner, his somewhat unwelcome seagull sidekick hanging around hoping for leftovers, and the Sheriff patrolling the property making sure everyone stayed in line.

We loved them.

At one point, we accidentally left the door to the sunroom open. When we came back, there was the Sheriff standing on one of the chairs as if he had every right in the world to be there. Clearly these birds were not the least bit bothered by humans. In fact, judging from how comfortable they were around the house, I had a feeling we probably weren't the first vacationers who had invited them a little too close.

Pretty soon we weren't watching the water nearly as much for dolphins or manatees anymore. We were too distracted by the antics of George, his sidekick, and the Sheriff. We started looking for them in the morning. We noticed when one of them was missing. We watched their little disagreements and laughed at their personalities.

We had planned this trip to Florida with all kinds of things in mind. We were going to snorkel and see wildlife. We were going to spend time at the beach. We were even going to ride some roller coasters. Hanging out with a snowy egret, a seagull, and a great blue heron had definitely not made the itinerary.

And yet somehow they became one of my favorite parts of the trip.

It's probably a good thing I don't live in that house because I'm fairly certain George and I would develop a terribly unhealthy relationship. I would feed him constantly, George would become increasingly convinced that I existed solely to provide his meals, and none of it would be particularly good for either one of us.

But for one week, I thoroughly enjoyed him.

And I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps God did too.

Sometimes I think we look for God only in the big things. We look for Him to answer the prayer, solve the problem, open the door, give us direction, or teach us some profound spiritual lesson. Even when we talk about God's blessings, we tend to think about the significant things He has provided.

But what about laughter?  What if sometimes God places something in our lives for no other reason than because He knows it will make us smile?

I don't know that George needed to teach me anything profound. Maybe the Sheriff wasn't there to illustrate some great biblical truth. Maybe a seagull tagging along behind an irritated snowy egret wasn't a metaphor for anything at all.

Maybe they were simply funny.

Maybe God, who created snowy egrets and great blue herons and seagulls, and gave each of them their strange little personalities, knew exactly how much we would enjoy having them around for a week.

There was an enormous ocean right outside our window. Dolphins occasionally passed through it. Somewhere out there was at least one manatee that apparently everyone in my family except me managed to see.  But some of my favorite memories from that week involved a snowy egret, an unwanted seagull sidekick, and a great blue heron to patrol the property.

None of them were on the itinerary.

Maybe some of God's sweetest gifts aren't.

God Didn't Have To Make The World Interesting

God could have created a completely functional world. Birds could all have been brown. Flowers could all have looked alike. Food could have provided the nutrition we needed without having much flavor. There didn't have to be sunsets or changing leaves or dolphins jumping out of the ocean. There certainly didn't need to be a snowy egret with enough personality to convince a houseful of vacationers that he was entitled to breakfast every morning.

And yet look at what God made.

There are thousands upon thousands of different kinds of birds. There are creatures living at the bottom of the ocean that most human beings will never see. There are flowers growing in places where hardly anyone will ever notice them. There are colors and sounds and tastes and textures everywhere.

Creation isn't merely functional. It's extravagant.

And I think that tells us something about the Creator.

Psalm 104 is a passage of Scripture where the writer seems almost overwhelmed by everything God has made. He writes about springs flowing through valleys where wild animals drink. He describes birds nesting beside the waters and singing among the branches. He talks about grass growing for cattle, plants producing food, the moon marking the seasons, lions roaming at night, and the sea "teeming with creatures beyond number."

Then in verse 24, he seems to stop and take it all in:

"How many are your works, Lord! In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures."

I wonder if I've spent so much time looking for what God is trying to teach me that sometimes I've forgotten to notice what He has simply given me to enjoy.

Our lives are busy. I think that's true in much of the world, but it seems especially true in our culture here in the US. We place tremendous value on productivity. We need to be accomplishing something. We need to be working, improving, answering, planning, organizing, producing, or checking something else off the list.

Even our rest can become productive. We track our steps. We schedule our vacations. We make itineraries for our free time. We take our phones everywhere so that even when nothing is demanding our attention, something can.

Somewhere along the way, I think many of us forget how to wonder.

When I was a child, my parents bought us a trampoline, probably in hopes that my brothers and I would wear off some of our seemingly endless supply of energy. This was long before trampolines came surrounded by nets and covered with safety pads. Ours was simply a trampoline sitting out in the yard.

Sometimes I would climb onto it and not jump at all.  I would lie flat on my back and look at the sky.  I would watch the clouds move and try to decide what they looked like. Sometimes one looked like an animal. Another looked like a face. If my brothers or friends were lying there with me, we would point them out to each other and debate what we saw.

"That one looks like a dog."

"No, it doesn't. It looks like a dragon."

Then, while we were arguing about it, the wind would stretch it into something completely different.

I could lose a surprising amount of time lying on that trampoline looking at the sky.  There wasn't a deep spiritual lesson in it. I wasn't studying meteorology. I wasn't accomplishing anything. No one was going to ask me later how many clouds I had observed or whether I had used my trampoline time efficiently.

I was simply enjoying something God had made.  Maybe that's part of what makes childhood so special, and maybe it's part of what makes adulthood so hard.

Somewhere between lying on a trampoline watching clouds and becoming adults with calendars and responsibilities, we can lose some of our sense of wonder. We stop staring at clouds because there are emails to answer. We don't have time to watch a bird because we're looking at our phones. We hurry past things that once would have fascinated us because we have an appointment and we're already five minutes behind.

We become very good at being productive.  I'm not sure we become equally good at being delighted.

And then along came George.

For one week, a snowy egret, his slightly annoying seagull sidekick, and a great blue heron I had appointed Sheriff of the property gave us something to watch.

There was nothing productive about it.

We didn't learn anything particularly useful. We weren't accomplishing anything when we stood at the window watching George attempt to guilt us into feeding him. Our jaws dropped when the Sheriff marched across the yard, wandered into the sunroom and climbed onto a chair.

We stopped because it delighted us.  And somewhere in the middle of watching that strange little posse of birds, I think I remembered something I used to know while lying on a trampoline looking at clouds.

Not every moment has to accomplish something.  Sometimes we can simply look.  Sometimes we can wonder.  Sometimes we can laugh.  Sometimes we can enjoy what God has made simply because He made it.

Psalm 104:31 says, "May the glory of the Lord endure forever; may the Lord rejoice in his works."

And I wonder if perhaps He enjoys watching us rejoice in it too.

A few years ago, I was walking through an estate sale when I noticed several boxes sitting on the basement floor filled with shiny gold trophies. Most of them were golf trophies, collected over what appeared to be many years. Some were larger than others, and the sheer number of them was overwhelming. Each one had the man's name engraved on it, along with the accomplishment it represented.

I don't know anything about the man who owned them other than the fact that he was apparently a spectacular golfer. I don't know how seriously he took the game or how many hours he spent practicing, but I would guess that winning those trophies had been one of the great joys of his life. Maybe he carried each one home proudly and had an entire trophy case where he displayed his numerous awards. Perhaps there were pictures of him holding them while friends and family congratulated him. Each trophy represented something he had worked hard to achieve.

But now, the person who had lived in this home, or perhaps the couple who had lived there, had apparently passed away. Their belongings were being sold, and these trophies that had once been so meaningful were sitting in cardboard boxes on a basement floor with a sign on the front that said $1.

Sadly, no one wanted them. What are you going to do with a golf trophy engraved with someone else's name? Eventually, instead of charging a dollar for each trophy, the price was changed so that you could take the entire box home for one dollar. Still, no one wanted them.

I remember looking at those trophies and thinking about how they had probably once been a tremendous source of pride for this man. Not necessarily because of what they cost, but because of what they represented.  Achievement, success, recognition, and winning. And now nobody wanted an entire box of them for one dollar. Unless someone in his family eventually decided to keep them, I'm guessing they ended up at Goodwill or perhaps simply in the trash.

You know, we all have our own version of trophies. They may not be made of plastic and metal or have our names engraved on little brass plates. Maybe our trophy is the position we worked years to earn or the title that appears beneath our name in our email signature. Maybe it's the house we saved to buy or the number in our bank account. Maybe it's the recognition we receive, the things we own, or the accomplishments we're proud to tell people about.

None of those things are necessarily wrong. It's good to have goals. It's good to work hard, and it's good to celebrate when we finally accomplish something we've worked toward for a long time. But there is something unsettling about realizing how temporary all of it is.

We can spend an enormous amount of our lives trying to accumulate things that eventually someone else will put into a box and stick a sign on the front that says $1. There has to be something more to live for. There has to be something more permanent to do with the years we've been given.

The things that can feel so important to us right now won't necessarily be important at all after we're gone. The title will belong to someone else. Someone else will live in the house. The money will be spent or inherited. The possessions will be divided up, donated, sold, or thrown away. Eventually, even the trophies will end up in a box.

Maybe the question isn't whether we should accomplish things during our lives. Maybe the better question is what all of those accomplishments are ultimately for. If I spend my entire life building something that ends with me, I'm not sure I've built something that lasts.

He Must Increase

John the Baptist was also a bit of a quirky guy. He lived in the wilderness, wore clothing made of camel's hair with a leather belt around his waist, and ate locusts and wild honey. He was a true wilderness man, and I don't imagine he was terribly concerned about impressing anyone. John knew who he was, he knew why he was here, and perhaps just as importantly, he knew who he wasn't.

When Jesus' ministry began, John said something important: “He must increase, but I must decrease.” (John 3:30) John understood that his ministry had never really been about him. He had been given an incredibly important assignment, but that assignment was to prepare the way for the Messiah. The people who had been following John would eventually need to start following Jesus because John wasn't the Messiah. He was simply the one God had chosen to point people toward Him.

I think what makes John's response so remarkable is that he was okay with that. He had spent years preaching, baptizing, gathering followers, and preparing people for what was coming, but he never confused the work God had given him with something that belonged to him. When Jesus arrived, John didn't try to protect his position or hold on to his followers. He understood that everything he had been given was meant to point people toward Christ. His purpose was important, but he also understood that fulfilling that purpose would eventually require him to step out of the spotlight.

That's a very different way of looking at life than the one our world often gives us. We live in a culture that constantly encourages us to increase. We want to increase our income, our influence, the size of our house, the number of people who know our name, the accomplishments on our résumé, and perhaps even the number of trophies sitting on our shelves. Living a simple life doesn't earn many accolades, so why would anyone intentionally choose to decrease when so much of the world seems to be telling us that the goal is to accumulate as much as possible?

There isn't anything inherently wrong with accomplishment, success, or having nice things. But somewhere along the way, it becomes very easy to begin measuring the value of our lives by how much we can accumulate and how much recognition we receive for it. John measured his life differently. He wasn't concerned with how much recognition he could receive because what mattered to him was whether he had accomplished what God sent him to do. He didn't need his own name to become greater because he knew there was another Name that mattered infinitely more.

Maybe that's part of what those trophies sitting in the basement were reminding me. Eventually, everything with my name on it will belong to someone else or be thrown away. My possessions won't last forever. Neither will my position or my accomplishments. Even the things I spend years working to build will eventually be handed to someone else. But what God chooses to do through my life can reach far beyond the things that have my name engraved on them.

I wonder what would happen if we really began to live as though everything we are and everything we possess has been given to us for the purpose of making Christ increase. What if the question wasn't simply what we could accomplish with our lives, but how the things we've been given could point someone toward Him? Our homes, careers, money, talents, influence, time, and even our accomplishments would become more than things to collect. They would become things God could use.

Perhaps that's what decreasing really begins to look like. It doesn't necessarily mean having less, accomplishing less, or believing that what we do doesn't matter. John the Baptist certainly didn't live an insignificant life. Maybe it simply means making less of our lives about us.

And somehow, when life becomes less about us, it begins to become much more meaningful.

Stepping Down From the Throne

So what does it actually mean to decrease?

One simple way I've heard it described is that we have to step down from the throne of our own lives. I've heard that expression many times over the years, and I think it helps explain what John was talking about when he said, “He must increase, but I must decrease.”

When we're sitting on the throne of our own lives, we make the decisions. If we feel like doing something, we do it. If we don't feel like doing something, we don't. Sometimes we make good decisions and sometimes we make terrible ones, but either way, they're our decisions. We consider what we want, what will make us comfortable, what will make us happy, and what will benefit us, and then we build our lives around those things.

That's what makes decreasing so difficult. In order for Christ to increase, we have to be willing to step down from the throne of our own lives and allow Jesus to take His rightful place as King.  And that sounds wonderful until the King asks us to do something we don't particularly want to do.

Maybe He asks us to give generously when there are plenty of things we'd rather spend the money on. Maybe He asks us to change the way we respond to our families when we're tired, stressed, and convinced we have every right to be irritated. Maybe He asks us to forgive someone we'd rather stay angry with, serve someone when it isn't convenient, or tell someone about the gospel when doing so feels uncomfortable.

When I'm sitting on the throne, I get to decide whether those things fit into my plans. When Christ is on the throne, the question begins to change. Instead of simply asking what I want to do, I have to start asking what He wants me to do.

That doesn't mean we're suddenly going to get everything right. We won't. We will climb back onto that throne more times than we'd probably like to admit. But the goal of the Christian life is that, little by little, there is less of us running the show and more of Christ. We learn to surrender our preferences, our plans, our reactions, our money, our time, and eventually every part of our lives to Him.

And somewhere in that process, something remarkable begins to happen. We change.

That's not because Christians are somehow better people than everyone else. We aren't. It's because when we genuinely seek to obey Christ, He begins transforming us. We become more generous because He is generous. We become more compassionate because He is compassionate. We learn to forgive because He forgives. We begin serving because He served. The more Christ increases in our lives, the more our lives begin to look like His.

I think this may be one of the most difficult parts of the Christian walk because surrender goes against something deep within us. We naturally want to protect ourselves, serve ourselves, make our own decisions, and remain firmly seated on the throne. Yet Jesus repeatedly taught that greatness in His Kingdom looks completely different. He taught His followers to serve, and then He demonstrated exactly what He meant by kneeling down and washing His disciples' feet. The King Himself chose the position of a servant.

Perhaps this brings us all the way back to those boxes of golf trophies sitting on the basement floor.

If we want to build a life that lasts beyond us, perhaps we have to stop concentrating quite so much on building a life that points toward us. The awards, titles, possessions, and accomplishments that once seemed so important will eventually belong to someone else, be forgotten, or perhaps end up in a cardboard box with a one-dollar sign taped to the front.

But there are other things we leave behind.

People will remember when we showed up when it wasn't convenient. Our children may remember the times we chose patience when we had every reason to be frustrated. Someone may remember that we gave when they desperately needed help, that we forgave when forgiveness was difficult, or that we showed them love and compassion during a season when they weren't receiving much of either.

Those things don't fit neatly into a trophy case, but they have a way of continuing long after we're gone. They shape our children, who may someday shape their children. They affect friends, neighbors, coworkers, and sometimes people whose lives we may never realize we've touched.

Isn't it strange?

We spend so much of our lives trying to become more, and yet perhaps the greatest legacy we can leave comes from becoming less like ourselves and more like Christ.

John the Baptist understood that. His goal wasn't to leave behind a world filled with people talking about John. His life was successful because he pointed people toward Jesus.

Maybe ours should be measured the same way.

Yesterday was one of those days when nothing seemed to work out. Nothing terrible happened. There was no crisis or emergency. It was simply one thing after another that didn't go according to plan.

My daughter's birthday is coming up, and I had already arranged for someone to make her birthday cake. It was one of those little details I had checked off my list and didn't have to think about anymore. Until I did. I found out the cake wasn't going to work out after all, which meant I suddenly needed to come up with another plan. Okay. Fine. I can find another cake.

Then there were the movers. I'm helping a friend move some things, and I had already scheduled movers to help us. The plan was for some of their belongings to be stored temporarily in my garage. Everything was arranged and ready to go. Then I received a notice from my apartment complex that they were going to be repaving the road leading to my building, which meant access would be closed for the day. And naturally, out of all the days they could have chosen to close the road, they chose the exact day I had scheduled the movers.

So now I needed another plan for that too.

Then there was my son's doctor's appointment. It had been scheduled for quite some time, but the doctor's vacation plans changed, so the appointment had to be moved. Another plan changed. Another thing to rearrange. Another item I thought was settled suddenly wasn't.

And on and on it went.

By the end of the day, I felt like I had spent most of it adjusting plans I had already made. Nothing was devastating, and every problem had a solution. We would find another cake. We would figure out what to do about the movers. The doctor's appointment would be rescheduled. But sometimes it isn't the size of the problems that gets to us. It's the accumulation of them. It's one little disappointment followed by another until you find yourself wondering if anything is simply going to go according to plan.

I'm guessing you've had days like that too. Days when the schedule you've carefully put together seems to unravel one piece at a time. Days when every time you solve one problem, another one appears. Days when you finally reach the evening and think, Well, at least that's over.

Then, the next day I woke up with a head cold.

Of course I did.

As I lay there feeling the congestion settling into my head, I couldn't help but laugh a little. Apparently, we weren't quite finished and I needed to change my weekend plans so I could get better.

But somewhere in the middle of all those changed plans, I began thinking about why days like this bother me so much. After all, I know I can't control everything. I've lived long enough to understand that plans change. People change. Circumstances change. Roads apparently get repaved at precisely the least convenient time possible. And yet there is still something in me that likes things settled. I like knowing what is going to happen. I like making a plan, checking something off my list, and knowing I don't have to think about it anymore.

Maybe that's why days like this can be so frustrating. They remind me how little control I actually have. I can make the appointment, but I can't guarantee the doctor will be there. I can schedule the movers, but I can't keep someone from closing the road. I can order the cake, but I can't guarantee the cake will actually happen. I can make all the plans I want, but I can't make everything work out.

Perhaps that's not always a bad thing to be reminded of.

Lately, I've had a theme around this specific topic. I've been discovering that following Jesus for a long time hasn't made me as independent as I once thought it would. In fact, it seems to be doing exactly the opposite.

When Life Doesn't Work Out

When I get like that, my natural instinct is usually to withdraw. I become quiet, keep to myself, and avoid interacting with anyone. Somehow, in my mind, it feels kinder to isolate than to risk taking my frustration out on the people I love most. To be honest, there is probably some wisdom in stepping away for a little while. Sometimes we genuinely need a few quiet moments to let our emotions settle before they spill over onto everyone around us.

But this particular evening felt different.

As I stood in the kitchen trying to make dinner, it seemed as though every little thing required more effort than it should have. Nothing was actually going wrong, yet every ingredient, every decision, and every interruption felt like one more thing I didn't have the emotional energy to handle. By the end of the evening, I had retreated into my own little world, and the next morning I found myself sending an apology text to my kids because I knew they had experienced a version of me they didn't deserve.

The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized dinner had never really been the problem.

The truth was, I had been carrying around hurt for days.

My divorce had been occupying far more space in my heart than I wanted to admit. Old memories had been surfacing again...things that had been said, things that had happened, conversations I couldn't change, and if I'm being completely honest, anger that I hadn't fully surrendered to God. It wasn't that one particular event had triggered me that evening. Rather, weeks of sadness, frustration, disappointment, and hurt had quietly been piling up beneath the surface until even something as ordinary as making dinner felt overwhelming.

Standing there in my kitchen, I remember thinking that I simply didn't have anything left to give. Nothing catastrophic had happened. I wasn't responding to some terrible piece of news. I was just emotionally exhausted.

Looking back now, I realize I didn't simply need a few minutes alone.

I needed Jesus.

Sometimes we think we need Him most during life's biggest crises, a frightening diagnosis, the loss of someone we love, or a tragedy we never saw coming. Those are certainly moments when we cling to Him with everything we have. But perhaps we need Him just as desperately on ordinary evenings when dinner won't come together, our emotions feel heavier than we can explain, and we discover we've been carrying burdens far longer than we realized.

Life is hard, even on its ordinary days. We weren't created to simply survive them on our own strength. We need Christ not only for life's biggest storms, but for the quiet Tuesday evenings when our hearts have become weary and we don't even recognize why.

When the Hurt Leaks Out

But then Tuesday night comes, dinner doesn't come together easily, and everything we've been carrying starts leaking out.

Unfortunately, the people who receive the spillover are often the people who had absolutely nothing to do with the original wound. They didn't cause the hurt we're carrying. They weren't responsible for the memories that resurfaced that afternoon or the anger that has been quietly building for weeks. They just happened to be standing nearby when something ordinary became the final straw.

Unforgiveness has a way of doing that. We might be able to tuck it into a closet for a while, shut the door, and go about our lives as though everything is fine. But eventually, it comes back out, reminding us that it was there all along.

I think that's partly because forgiveness is a process. Deep wounds don't always heal quickly, and sometimes forgiveness doesn't happen all at once either. We can sincerely surrender something to God and discover later that there are still places in our hearts where the hurt remains. Sometimes it even disguises itself as something else. We think we're dealing with anger. Or stress. Or sadness. Or simply the lingering difficulties of a divorce. But God has a way of gently pulling back those layers and showing us what is underneath.

And sometimes, when all the disguises are removed, there it is.

The same darn thing we've been battling for years.

The anger I thought I had contained wasn't really contained at all. It had simply been waiting beneath the surface until an ordinary Tuesday night, when dinner required more effort than I had to give, and suddenly it came pouring out in a place where I never expected it.

Of course, my response to God was something along the lines of, Really, Lord? This again?

In moments like these, I find Peter incredibly relatable. He came to Jesus and asked, "Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?" (Matthew 18:21).

I understand the question.

I want a number.

Perhaps that's the accountant in me, but if we're going to do this forgiveness thing, I'd like to know exactly how many times are required. Surely there comes a point when I've fulfilled my obligation. Seven sounds fairly generous to me.

Unfortunately, Jesus gave Peter a much bigger number.

Jesus answered, "I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times." (Matthew 18:22).

I can imagine Peter's reaction because I suspect it would have been similar to mine.

Are You serious? I have to do this again?

But I don't think Jesus was really giving Peter a number to keep track of. He was showing him that forgiveness would have to become a way of life. There would always be another offense, another disappointment, another hurt, and sometimes even another memory of an old wound we thought we had already surrendered. Following Christ would require us to forgive again and again throughout our lives.

And here's the part I don't want to miss: Jesus isn't asking us to model something He has never done Himself.

Think about how many times Christ has forgiven us. Not once. Not seven times. Not even seventy-seven. We come back to Him over and over with our failures, our selfishness, our disobedience, and even our repeated struggles with the very same sins we promised Him we would leave behind.

And still, there is grace.

Still, there is forgiveness.

Jesus is the ultimate model of the very thing He asks of us. So if my desire is to become more like Christ, I can't give up on forgiveness simply because I'm tired of doing it. Becoming more Christlike means learning, little by little, to forgive as I have been forgiven.

Choosing What Will Hold Me

But what does it actually mean to forgive someone again?

When Peter asked Jesus how many times he had to forgive, perhaps he wasn't only talking about different offenses. What if sometimes we have to forgive the same offense over and over? What if the same wound returns seventy-seven times? What if the person doesn't necessarily hurt us again, although they might, but the memory does?

Something reminds us of what happened, and suddenly we're right back there. We remember what was said. We remember what was done. We remember how deeply it hurt. And every time that memory surfaces, we have a choice about what we're going to do with it. We can pick it back up and carry it around for a while, or we can surrender it to Christ again.

I hate to admit it, but I like to pick it back up.

There's a part of me that doesn't want to forget how I was wronged because remembering feels a little like protection. If I keep the details close enough, perhaps I can make sure it never happens again. If I remember exactly how much it hurt, perhaps I'll recognize the warning signs next time. Somehow holding onto the offense can feel safer than releasing it.

But remembering what happened and remaining bound to what happened are not the same thing.

Forgiveness doesn't require us to pretend something wasn't wrong. It doesn't erase wisdom or eliminate the need for boundaries. It doesn't mean we have to place ourselves back into situations where someone can continue hurting us. Forgiveness simply means we stop insisting on carrying the offense everywhere we go.

We carry it into work. We carry it into new relationships. We carry it into conversations with people who never caused the wound. And sometimes we carry it right back into the kitchen on an ordinary Tuesday night and discover that yesterday's hurt is still spilling into today's life.

I don't think God's command to forgive has ever been about letting someone off the hook. I think it's also about God refusing to allow His children to remain trapped in the places where they experienced their deepest sorrows. Unforgiveness has a way of holding us there. It continually invites us back to the offense, back to the conversation, back to what should have happened, back to what we wish we had said, and back to the pain we desperately want to leave behind.

But we were never meant to live there.

If I've learned anything about God during all these years of walking with Him, it's that He is a God of freedom. Again and again, He leads His children out of the places that hold them captive. He doesn't want us chained to anger, bitterness, resentment, or something someone did to us years ago. He wants our hearts free to follow Him wherever He leads us next.

Maybe that's why forgiveness sometimes has to happen seventy-seven times. Maybe I really did forgive yesterday, but today the memory returned. So today, I surrender it again. Tomorrow, if it comes back, I'll surrender it again. Not because yesterday's forgiveness wasn't genuine, but because healing from deep wounds takes time, and every time I choose to release the hurt instead of rehearsing it, I loosen its grip on my life a little more.

Eventually, I think it comes down to a choice about what I'm willing to be bound to.

I can remain bound to unforgiveness, carrying around the weight of something I cannot go back and change. Or I can bind myself more closely to Christ, trusting Him with the healing I haven't completely experienced yet.

One of those keeps me living in yesterday.

The other leads me toward freedom.

So perhaps the next time an old memory surfaces, I don't need to be discouraged that I'm dealing with the same darn thing again. Maybe I simply need to recognize another opportunity to put it back into the hands of Jesus.

And if I have to do that seventy-seven times, then seventy-seven times I will choose Christ.

Because I don't want yesterday's hurt spilling into another Tuesday night.

I want to be free.