This morning, as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains, I found myself deep in reflection—a lingering echo of a conversation we’d had with dear friends who had recently spent a few days with us at our home in Abeokuta. They are a couple we cherish, the kind of friends with whom memories flow freely and honesty feels safe.
We wandered together down memory lane, recounting moments of joy and sorrow, laughter and tears. But our conversation took an unexpected turn into a chapter I had tried to close—a betrayal by a mutual friend who had once been a big figure in our lives. His actions and words had carved a wound so deep that time had failed to heal it.
I remembered, with vivid clarity, the lies he had spread about my husband—accusations of deceit, fraud, and dishonor. None of it was true. And yet, the sting of those words still lingered, especially because they came at a time when my husband was already at his most vulnerable. We were grappling with the collapse of his business, the loss of all our investments, and the weight of bankruptcy. It was a season of devastation and survival, and in the midst of it, this man—this friend—had twisted the knife with words that cut deeper than our circumstances ever could.
We had even convened a meeting with a few elders of the church and people we deeply respected, hoping to resolve the matter and find an amicable resolution. I can still picture the room—the somber expressions of those seated around us. The air was heavy, filled with the weight of unspoken tension. My husband and I sat close together, our shoulders barely touching, a silent reassurance in the midst of uncertainty.
When our friend began to speak, his words came with a calmness that made them even more cutting. He laid out his accusations with a confidence that left no room for doubt in his tone, each statement like a stone thrown with precision. I remember gripping the edge of my chair, my nails digging into the wood as I tried to hold back the tide of disbelief and anger rising within me.
My husband sat there, his expression a mix of disbelief and heartbreak. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady but tinged with pain. “Do you really believe what you’re saying?” he asked, his eyes searching for some trace of regret or doubt. The response came without hesitation, sharp and final: “Yes.”
It was as though the ground beneath us shifted. I felt an ache settle in my chest, a mix of anger and sadness so heavy it was hard to breathe. I looked at my husband, at the quiet dignity with which he absorbed the betrayal, and it only deepened the sting. This man, whom we had called a brother, had become the source of a wound we never saw coming.
My husband, in time, forgave him completely. I watched as he released the hurt with a grace that I admired but couldn’t bring myself to replicate. It wasn’t that I harbored malice or wished him harm—I thought I had forgiven him. I told myself I had. I wished him well, truly. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to him, and I could even say I wanted him to be happy. But forgiveness, as I learned, isn’t always what we think it is.
I mistook my decision to distance myself, to draw clear boundaries, as a sign of healing. I had cut him off entirely, resolved never to engage with him again. I told myself it was self-protection, but deep down, it was something else—a quiet ache I hadn’t addressed. My responses during this recent conversation with friends revealed the truth I had tried to ignore. The way my voice tightened, the way my heart clenched when I spoke about the betrayal—it all pointed to one thing. I had not let it go.
Justice has always been one of my highest values. I despise injustice in all its forms, and I cannot abide the thought of good people being wrongfully accused or slandered. Perhaps that’s why this betrayal cut so deeply. My husband, who is one of the kindest and most honorable men I know, had been falsely maligned in a moment of profound vulnerability. The sheer unfairness of it all was a weight I didn’t realize I was still carrying. My desire for justice—a reflection of God’s heart—had become tangled with my inability to release the hurt and trust His redemptive work.
This morning, as the world stirred awake, so too did the gentle, insistent voice of the Holy Spirit within me. The words were a whisper at first, soft yet piercing: He was wounded for our iniquities, the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and by His stripes, we are healed. The verse settled over me like a balm, but it wasn’t finished yet.
How deep and vast our Father’s love for us! How wonderful His mercy and grace. Yet I, a simple human with all my flaws and failures, am designed to be like Him? “As He is, so are we in this world.” The weight of that truth pressed on me like never before. If I am to reflect His love, His forgiveness, and His grace, how could I cling to this grudge?
My mind drifted to the path Jesus walked—accused of blasphemy, branded an imposter, even called the devil himself. They spat on Him, mocked Him, and nailed Him to the cross, all under the weight of lies. And yet, His response was not vengeance or bitterness but grace: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
In that moment, I realized forgiveness is not about excusing injustice or pretending the hurt doesn’t exist. It’s about releasing the burden to God, trusting Him to deal with what’s right and wrong in His perfect timing. It’s about choosing freedom over the heavy chains of resentment.
I felt my defenses crumble under the weight of that truth. This was the fellowship of His sufferings—not just the pain, but the call to forgive in the face of betrayal, to let go even when justice feels undone. He bore it all and chose to die for us anyway.
So here I am, humbled and bare before Him. I whispered the words I had held back for so long: “Father, forgive him—he didn’t know what he was doing.” And with that, I let it go. Not because it was easy, but because I needed to. For my peace, for my healing, for my soul to find rest.
Forgiveness doesn’t erase the past, but it frees the present. It allows us to reflect the image of the One who forgave us first, the One who whispers grace into our most wounded places. It reminds me that God’s justice is always redemptive—always reaching for restoration, not destruction.
If you’ve ever wrestled with the quiet ache of unforgiveness, know this: forgiveness is not about denying your pain or justifying what was done. It’s about surrendering it all to God, letting His mercy fill the cracks where hurt once lived, and allowing His peace to do what only it can.
Thank You, Lord, for the grace to let go and the peace to rest in You.