Anchored in Colossians 1:20–22
There is a space where grief and justice intersect—a place where the human heart cries out for answers, accountability, and truth. It is in this place that forgiveness feels almost impossible. Likewise, it is impossible to forget the one who helped you heal when he could have rightfully walked away, but stayed.
When injustice has touched your child, your family, your story, your very soul—it is no small thing.
For years, I have tried to balance the sharp ache of injustice with the gentle call of forgiveness.
Most days, they feel like opposites:
- One demands truth.
- The other releases its grip.
- One holds the memory of what was done.
- The other yields the right to vengeance.
- One cries, “This should not have happened.”
- The other whispers, “Lord, heal my heart.”
But the deeper I go into Colossians 1, the more I realize they are not opposites at all. They are Parts of me that should not be dismissed; they are crying out. They meet in Christ. Jesus says, “Let the little children come to Me.” I don’t think I am taking this out of context; I believe Jesus wants to heal the wounded little inner children, the tribe of exiled children, silenced by the ancestral lies. Now, instead of suppressing them, I treat their pain as sacred. I pause, listen, discern, and pray.
“And having made peace through the blood of His cross… to reconcile all things unto Himself.”
—Col. 1:20
The cross is where forgiveness and justice collide.
And it is where God invites me to bring my sorrow, my anger, my questions, and even my bitterness.
Because forgiveness does not erase injustice.
Forgiveness refuses to let injustice rule the heart.
There are things done to me that will never feel “resolved” on this side of eternity.
There are lies told, words twisted, gossip spread, and truths ignored.
These caused a second grief—a grief after the grief, and wound after the wound.
I still feel it when specific names are mentioned. I still feel it when I remember what was said, what was kept from me, and how easily some caused my pain, and others who dismissed my pain.
But here is the truth, the Lord keeps whispering in my tender places:
“Child, you do not heal by holding their wrong.
You heal by holding My Son.”
Christ is the One who reconciles all things—including the injustice done to my son, me, and my children, including the wounds inflicted by relatives, including the bitterness rising like smoke from deep embers.
Forgiveness does not dismiss what happened. Forgiveness places the pain in God’s hands where justice is perfect and mercy is holy.
And in this surrender, I am learning something new:
Forgiveness is not a betrayal of my son. Forgiveness is not silence over wrong.
Forgiveness is not abandoning justice. Forgiveness is allowing God’s justice, not my bitterness, to hold the final word.
Colossians 1 says Christ has brought us from the domain of darkness into His kingdom of Light.
(Col. 1:13)
Bitterness belongs to the darkness. Justice belongs to God. My story belongs to the Light.
So when injustice rises and bitterness tries to reclaim its throne, I bring it—not perfectly, not quickly—but honestly to the foot of Christ’s cross.
There, justice and forgiveness are not enemies. His blood holds them together.
His mercy and love bind them together in His perfect peace.
Sacred Pause—Imagine you and the LORD are carefully gathering broken fragments, brushing away dust, holding each piece with reverence, and allowing God’s loving Presence to sit with you in every scenario.
Your heart is tender ground. Sacred ground. Nothing rushed.
Nothing forced—only the quiet nearness of the One who understands every wound.
Take a slow breath. Place your hand over your heart.
Tell your soul: We are not rushing. We are safe. God is here.
Imagine yourself kneeling among the ruins of what once was— fragments of trust.
Pieces of shattered expectations, memories of love, and wounds left by those who should have stood with you. You are not alone in this place.
God kneels beside you. Not above you. Not beyond you. With you. His hands are gentle.
He does not reach for the pieces too quickly. He does not pressure you to rebuild.
He honors the ruins because He knows how they were created.
Sit with this scene, only as long as your heart can bear. You remember the moment—the words, the tone, the dismissal. You tried to speak about your pain, but they turned it into something else. They turned you into someone you no longer recognize; she doesn’t live here anymore.
But in this moment, imagine Jesus sitting beside you, quietly.
He, too, was dismissed by His family.
“For even His own brothers did not believe in Him.”
—John 7:5
He understands what it feels like to be unheard, unvalued, and misjudged by those closest to Him. He does not correct your tears. He whispers:
“I know this pain. I am here.”
Let God’s nearness soften the edge of that memory—not erase it, but hold it with you so you no longer have to carry it alone.
When lies were told about you
A deep grief rises— not only for the loss of a loved one, but for the betrayal that followed.
Imagine Jesus beside you again. Not distant.
He is Near; the One closer than a brother.
He, too, was slandered. His words twisted.
Motives questioned—lies thrown like stones.
“Many false witnesses came forward…”
—Matthew 26:60
He knows what it is like when people rewrite your story to protect themselves.
In this Sacred Pause, breathe in His compassion. Let His Presence lift even a small portion of that weight that was never meant to be yours.
When gossip added a second wound to the first
This is where the heart is the most fragile.
Grief had already stripped you bare.
Then came the whispers—the distortions—the careless words spoken by those who should have protected you.
Imagine Jesus placing His hand gently over yours.
He, too, was gossiped about.
“Is this not the carpenter’s son?”
—Matthew 13:55
(whispers meant to belittle)
“He has a demon.”
—John 8:48
(whispers meant to discredit)
He understands the pain of being spoken about rather than spoken to.
Feel the warmth of His hand. Feel the protection in His presence.
He covers you—not to silence your pain, but to shelter it.
When those you needed most walked away
This is the deepest wound.
When the truth of your heart was too heavy for others to carry,
they left you standing in your grief.
Jesus knows this pain too.
“They all forsook Him and fled.”
—Mark 14:50
He was abandoned in His hour of greatest sorrow—not by enemies, but by friends.
He does not shame your loneliness. He does not rebuke your ache.
He sits with you in this space and says steadily:
“You were never alone. Not for a moment.” Let this truth settle—not demanding healing,
but offering presence.
Sacred Silence
Take a slow breath.
Notice the pieces around you—and how God is not afraid of them.
He does not rush you to forgive. He does not scold you for your tears.
He does not tell you to get over it. He helps you walk through it.
He honors the ruins. He honors your loved one.
He honors your grief. He honors your story. And piece by piece—in your time, with His tender touch
He will help you rebuild without harming the remnants.