“Then Peter came to Him and said, “Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? Up to seven times?”

Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you, up to seven times, but up to seventy times seven.” (Matthew 18:21-22)

Forgiveness is a weighty topic. In reality it’s messy, often involving personal and painful situations. And it is clear that the Lord tells us we are supposed to forgive, not just occasionally or when it suits us, but up to seventy times seven. The breadth of this command can feel overwhelming, especially when we face it in the context of our own wounds. But it’s also clearly important that we wrestle with it. 

I generally find the idea and practice of forgiveness easier in personal relationships. Or rather I shouldn’t say easier, but simply a necessity. It is clear that I should work to move past hurts with my husband, sister, mother: there is a relationship at stake there. But it’s much harder to hold when it’s not so personal, when the hurt comes from those who are more distant, whether they are public figures or strangers whose actions affect me or those I love. What about those who commit atrocities in the news, like murderers or child abusers? Or acquaintances whose views or actions have hurt people or ideals dear to me?

“So he said, “I have been very zealous for the Lord God of hosts; for the children of Israel have forsaken Your covenant, torn down Your altars, and killed Your prophets with the sword. I alone am left; and they seek to take my life.” 

Then He said, “Go out, and stand on the mountain before the Lord.” And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind tore into the mountains and broke the rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a still small voice. 

So it was, when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood in the entrance of the cave. Suddenly a voice came to him, and said, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” 

(1 Kings 19:10-13)

I have always loved this story. Elijah was a prophet to the Lord who was unpopular and persecuted, and now at the end of hope. He calls out to the Lord in desperation: I alone am left. And then the Lord answers him, but not in the great wind, or the earthquake, or the fire, but in a “still small voice.”  So many things in this passage feel relatable: feeling that our beliefs are everywhere rejected and attacked, feeling alone, feeling despair, looking for or expecting the Lord to answer our prayers in obvious and loud ways. And then how gently the Lord does speak to us. 

But we can only hear the Lord after the other chaos dies down. The Lord isn’t in the loud and all consuming events that demand our attention. The Lord is in the quiet and the stillness. Of course we can only really hear the Lord in our own lives when we leave a still space for Him to speak in to. 

And similarly, we can only really hear others’–our neighbor, friend, and family– when we allow a space for them to speak. When we actually listen. 

Some short thoughts that came to me on vacation this week. While enjoying floating in the middle of a lake, surrounded all around by soft water, I was struck by how water so gently holds you, but also completely supports you. 

As we know, water can also be forceful and frightening—dangerous. Like all elements it has many forms. And maybe that makes its gentleness all the more striking. 

Likewise, the Lord’s awesome power only makes His gentleness more touching. The fact that He could toss me like mere driftwood through the tides and obstacles of life makes His compassionate and patient leading that much more poignant. 

And just as when I relax back into the embrace of the lake—with the joy of sun above me and blue and green world all around— when I rest in His care, I am completely held. 

“The LORD is my strength and my shield; My heart trusts in Him, and I am helped; Therefore my heart greatly rejoices, And with my song I praise Him.” Psalm 28:7

Until I thought of myself as the sea

I used to separate good days from bad until 
I thought of myself as an ocean. I used to 
split times I felt strong from when I felt weak 
until I imagined myself as the sea. Calm and 
rocky, wild and soft, still and powerful and vast 
and more than any one thing. In the ocean it’s 
hard to divorce one mood from another, one wave 
from the next. Now, on my worst days, I think 
of how good life is too, how I still can greet joy 
while swimming through grief. How fragile 
strength feels. How I’m not any one thing in any 
one moment on any one day. I’m all of it and 
all of it is me. 

– Hannah Napier Rosenberg

I came across this poem on Instagram and it resonated deeply. It feels like something that women in particular relate to, and need to hear. It led me to my frequent meditations on enough-ness and the struggle to be all of our feelings and experiences at once, not diminishing or canceling either side.