Over the past few months, forgiveness has been on my heart in a way that’s hard to explain. It’s like the Holy Spirit is gently pressing on that sore place I thought I had numbed with time. But maybe God doesn’t want time to heal this one. Maybe He wants truth and grace and surrender to do the healing.
Forgiveness—what a strange, holy word. It’s supposed to be freeing, right? But why does it feel like a prison sometimes? Why does giving forgiveness feel harder than asking for it?
I read 1 John 1:9 again today: “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.”
That verse always humbles me. It reminds me that I’m no better than anyone I’m struggling to forgive. I’ve sinned too. I’ve broken promises, spoken in anger, judged others, been selfish. And yet, every single time I come back to Him—even when I crawl back all broken and ashamed—God forgives me. Not just partially. He forgives completely. He doesn’t say, “I forgive you but I won’t forget.” He says, “I will remember their sins no more” (Hebrews 8:12).
So if God, the only perfect One, can forgive me… who am I to withhold forgiveness from someone else?
But, oh, Lord… it’s still so hard.
I’ve always thought that justice felt fair, and it does in a worldly sense. It’s like my flesh wants people to pay for the hurt they’ve caused. But then, what about mercy? Mercy is not getting what we do deserve. And then there’s grace, which absolutely undoes me—grace is getting what we don’t deserve. And that’s what God gives every day.
I heard something this past Sunday that keeps ringing in my ears: “Grace is scandalous. It offends the part of us that wants everyone to earn their way. But Jesus paid so we don’t have to.” I want to live that way. I want to give people that kind of grace. But in moments when the wound is still raw, forgiveness doesn’t feel like a gift—it feels like a death. Like I’m laying down my right to be angry. And sometimes, I don’t want to let that go.
I was reading Matthew 6:14-15 today: “For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.”
Oof. That one always hits me in the gut.
We love to receive forgiveness, but giving it? That’s where the rubber meets the road. And yet, the Bible is so clear: it’s not optional. Forgiveness isn’t about saying what someone did was okay. It’s about letting God handle the justice part and freeing ourselves from bitterness. Because unforgiveness is a cage, and the longer we sit in it, the more it poisons us.
Lord, help me with this. I’m tired of holding on to things that You’ve told me to release.
Jesus, You forgave the very people who nailed You to the cross. You said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing” (Luke 23:34). If You could do that while bleeding, rejected, and mocked, how can I say that someone is unworthy of my forgiveness? Help me to forgive like You—fully, freely, even when it costs me something.
I think that’s the hardest part: forgiveness costs something. It costs pride. It costs comfort. It costs the illusion of control. And in return, we get peace—but not always instantly. Sometimes it’s a slow release. A decision we make over and over until our heart catches up.
Sometimes I wish God would make it easier. But maybe it’s not meant to be easy. Maybe forgiveness is supposed to stretch us until we look more like Jesus. Maybe it’s the sacred ground where healing begins.
Today, I remembered a time in college when someone I trusted deeply betrayed me. I thought I had let it go. I said the words. I prayed the prayers. But something in my heart still flinches when I think of them. I still want them to “get what’s coming.” But that’s not the way of the Kingdom, is it?
Romans 12:19 says: “Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: ‘It is mine to avenge; I will repay,’ says the Lord.”
God is just. He sees. He knows. And He doesn’t need my help delivering justice.
Maybe that’s why forgiveness is so difficult. Because it requires trust. Trusting that God is who He says He is. That He won’t let evil go unanswered. That He truly works all things for good (Romans 8:28)—even betrayal, even heartbreak.
Father, I confess that sometimes I want to be judge, jury, and executioner. I want people to know how deeply they hurt me. But I surrender that desire to You. I lay down my right to be angry. I choose to forgive, not because they deserve it, but because You forgave me when I didn’t deserve it either.
I think about Peter asking Jesus how many times we have to forgive. “Up to seven times?” he asked. And Jesus replied, “Not seven times, but seventy-seven times” (Matthew 18:21-22). Not because people should keep hurting us—but because we’re called to live with hearts that are open and clean.
Forgiveness doesn’t mean there aren’t boundaries. It doesn’t mean we have to allow toxic people to stay in our lives unchecked. But it does mean we let go of the right to hate, to resent, to get even.
And that’s hard. Because bitterness can feel like power, can’t it? But in the end, it only weakens us. It robs us of joy. It distorts how we see God and people.
I want to be a woman who walks in freedom, not chained to old pain.
I want to be someone who can say, “Yes, it hurt—but God healed me, and I’ve released them into His hands.”
Lord, help me live that way.
You know what’s interesting? The more I meditate on what it cost You to forgive me, the easier it becomes to forgive others. I see the nails. I see the crown of thorns. I see the blood. I see the open arms. I see the empty grave.
And suddenly, that petty grudge doesn’t feel so worth holding onto.
I’m reminded of Ephesians 4:32: “Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.”
That’s the standard. Not “forgive when it feels right.” Not “forgive if they apologize.” But forgive as Christ forgave us—freely, sacrificially, completely.
That’s the Gospel.
I’m so grateful that God doesn’t love me with conditions. That His mercy is new every morning (Lamentations 3:22-23). That He doesn’t define me by my worst moment.
So why should I define someone else by theirs?
Jesus, help me remember that You didn’t just die for my sins, but for the sins of those who’ve hurt me too. You love them just as much. And maybe, just maybe, my forgiveness could be the beginning of their healing too.
If I really believe in the power of the cross, then I have to live like it means something. I can’t be half-grace, half-grudge.
Forgiveness is messy. But so was Calvary.
And if God can bring resurrection out of that, He can certainly bring healing to my heart too.
Lord, give me the strength to forgive again. And again. And again. Until it no longer hurts. Until I no longer flinch. Until Your peace becomes my default. May I never forget what You’ve done for me, and may I reflect that same mercy to the world around me.
Forgiveness may be the hardest gift to give, but it’s also the most Christlike thing I’ll ever do.
I want to be more like Him.
The Christian Tech-Nerd 