The Heart of Forgiveness

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Sunday morning, six of us walked into a tiny chapel in Boca Grande for Mass.

I've heard Sunday's Gospel many times. Peter asks Jesus how many times he has to forgive someone who sins against him, and Jesus tells him not seven times, but seventy-seven times.

But this time, it was the last few words that stayed with me.

"Unless each of you forgives your brother from your heart."

From your heart.

The priest talked about how easy it is to say we've forgiven someone while still carrying around the hurt. We revisit it. We complain about it. We replay what happened.

And I started thinking about the people I've forgiven.

Or at least the people I thought I had fully forgiven.

Because I think there can still be some residual pain.

Most of the time, it sits quietly in the background. I can go weeks, months, even years without giving it much thought. And then something happens. A memory. A photograph. A place. A phone call. Sometimes even another hurt that looks enough like the original one to bring it all rushing back.

And suddenly something that had been quietly simmering starts to boil again.

That's the part of Sunday's homily I haven't been able to stop thinking about.

Maybe saying I forgive you isn't always the end of forgiveness.

Maybe sometimes it's only the beginning.

And I don't think forgiving someone from the heart means giving them unlimited access to our lives. Forgiveness doesn't require us to keep standing in the same place where someone can continue to hurt us. Sometimes distance is necessary. Sometimes boundaries are necessary. Sometimes we can sincerely pray for someone and want good things for them while also knowing that having them close to us isn't healthy or wise.

Maybe that's part of what I've misunderstood about forgiveness.

Maybe forgiveness means I can let go of what someone owes me without giving them another opportunity to hurt me. 

A boundary can protect me from being hurt again.

Forgiveness asks God to heal what has already been hurt.

And maybe healing is one of the ways we begin to recognize that forgiveness has been happening all along.

Sometimes we don't realize how much we've forgiven until we revisit an old wound and discover it doesn't hurt the way it used to.

There are things I can talk about today that once made my heart pound and my whole body shake like I was really cold. The pain wasn't quietly simmering in the background then. It was sounding an alarm.

It doesn't do that anymore.

I can talk about those parts of my story now without the same reaction.

And yet Sunday's Gospel made me realize there may still be an ember there.

Not necessarily one I've deliberately kept alive. Just something I haven't completely surrendered yet.

Maybe that's what seventy-seven times can look like in my own life.

Maybe I didn't fail the first seventy-six times because the hurt resurfaced.

Maybe each return to forgiveness takes me a little deeper.

I've written before that acceptance doesn't happen once. It comes in layers.

I'm beginning to wonder if forgiveness does too.

Maybe when an old wound resurfaces, God can use it—not to show us we failed to forgive it the first time, but to show us there's another piece we're finally ready to give Him.

So maybe my prayer isn't simply, Jesus, help me forgive.

Maybe it's:

Jesus, there is still a part of this I haven't completely let go. I don't want to carry it anymore. Help me forgive from my heart. Help me surrender whatever is still mine to surrender. And help me pray for those who have hurt me—not because what happened was okay, but because they are Yours too.

Maybe forgiveness from the heart isn't one moment when everything finally disappears.

Maybe it's giving it back to God, little by little, every time we discover we're still holding some of it.

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