Forgiveness Ain’t for Sissies

If Jesus taught us nothing else, He taught the need to forgive those who have offended you. That’s easy to nod along to on a Sunday morning, but try it on a Tuesday afternoon after someone cuts you off in traffic, and you’ll find it takes more muscle than a gym membership provides.

Forgiveness, as I’ve learned, doesn’t come naturally. Anger does.

Anger is easy. It shows up with its boots on and its fists clenched, ready to move in and rearrange the furniture of your peace.

Forgiveness, on the other hand, is like that quiet neighbor who only knocks when you’ve invited him over. You’ve got to open the door and let him in, and sometimes he stands there waiting longer than you’d like.

I once heard somebody say that holding a grudge is like drinking poison and hoping the other person dies. I thought that was a bit dramatic, until I realized how many times I’ve let some small slight stew in my stomach like bad chili. The other person goes on about their day, whistling, while I’m chewing nails and wondering why my blood pressure is high.

There was a fellow I worked with years ago who seemed to make it his life’s mission to get under my skin. He had a gift for it.

If sarcasm were an Olympic sport, he’d have been on the podium with both hands raised. One day, he cracked a joke at my expense in front of a group. It was nothing terrible—just enough to make me feel two inches tall. I stewed on it all night, planning how I’d come back at him the next day.

Then something hit me—probably indigestion from the chili, but maybe something more. I realized that if I spent all my energy plotting revenge, the dude had already won.

I’d be lugging around a backpack full of resentment, while he skipped along without a care. So the next day, I walked into work, looked him square in the eye, and told him I forgave him.

He blinked like I’d just spoken in Martian. Then he laughed and said, “For what?”

That’s when it dawned on me–half the time, people don’t even realize they’ve offended us. We’re carrying grudges over things they’ve long forgotten—or never noticed in the first place.

Forgiveness isn’t for them, it’s for us. It’s the pressure valve that keeps us from blowing a gasket.

Now, I don’t want to make it sound like I float around forgiving everyone like some halo-polishing saint. I still wrestle with it.

Just the other day, someone cut in front of me at the grocery store checkout line with a cart piled high enough to block satellite signals. My first instinct was to ram their ankles with my cart.

But instead, I took a deep breath and said, “Go ahead. Looks like you’ve got enough to feed a small country.”

The woman laughed, the cashier laughed, and suddenly I wasn’t angry anymore. Humor, I’ve found, is a close cousin to forgiveness. It takes the sting out of being wronged and turns it into a story you can retell later with a smile.

The truth is, forgiveness is hard because our pride is stubborn. Pride says, “They don’t deserve it.”

But forgiveness doesn’t ask what the other person deserves. It asks, “Do you want to keep lugging that heavy grudge around, or do you want to walk a little lighter?”

I’ve lived long enough to know that walking lighter feels better. Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting.

It doesn’t mean letting someone run you over repeatedly. It means putting down the poison cup, setting aside the bitterness, and choosing peace instead.

So yes, forgiveness ain’t for sissies. It takes strength, grit, and more than a bit of humor, but once you get the hang of it, you’ll find it’s the best workout your heart will ever get.