“Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
— Matthew 6:12 (KJV)

We have prayed those words most of our lives. We have recited them in church, whispered them beside hospital beds, and taught them to children long before they understood what a trespass actually meant. Recently, however, I have been sitting with that word more intentionally.

A trespass is not simply a mistake. It is the crossing of a boundary. It is stepping into space that does not belong to you. It is entering sacred ground without permission. When framed that way, the word carries weight.

Each of us has trespassed. We have stepped outside of God’s will. We have crossed lines in relationships. We have said what should not have been said and withheld what should have been offered. Yet the prayer does not stop at asking God for forgiveness. It continues with a condition that should humble us: “as we forgive those who trespass against us.” That small word “as” creates a mirror. It invites us to examine whether we are extending the same grace we so freely request.

Lately, I have been reflecting on my mother’s life and the seasons when she was deeply wounded, particularly toward the end of her career. Systems that should have protected her failed her. People who should have honored her contributions did not. Stress mounted, and eventually her body bore the strain. Whether the illness was directly connected to those disappointments is something only God knows, but I do know this: unforgiveness weighs on the body in ways we often underestimate. Bitterness rarely stays in the spirit alone. It shows up in sleepless nights, tight shoulders, elevated blood pressure, and a mind that refuses to rest.

The assumption that the person who hurt us is losing sleep can be comforting, yet that assumption is not always true. They may rest peacefully while we rehearse conversations in our minds at two o’clock in the morning. Hurt feels justified in the beginning. Over time, however, it begins to reshape the heart. Hurt revisited repeatedly turns into resentment. Resentment left unattended becomes bitterness. Bitterness slowly becomes part of one’s posture toward life.

In order to move into ministry after retiring, my mother had to release what had wounded her. Carrying resentment into a new calling would have clouded her compassion and distorted her voice. Forgiveness, whether spoken publicly or processed privately, became necessary for her survival and spiritual clarity. The same may be true for many of us. Forward movement requires release.

Earlier this week, I reflected on Leah’s story in Genesis 29 after sitting with a message I heard last weekend, and I wrote more fully about that reflection in my article on Substack. Feeling unseen or unchosen leaves a particular kind of ache. Offering help during urgent moments, rearranging personal responsibilities to meet someone else’s need, and then feeling overlooked once the urgency passes can create a quiet sting. That sting tempts us to replay events and question motives. Without intentional processing, the wound begins to narrate the story for us. The internal dialogue shifts from “I was hurt” to “I am unvalued.” That shift is subtle, yet it changes everything.

Scripture never pretends forgiveness is simple. When I look at the Bible, I do not see people who were never hurt. I see people who were hurt deeply and still chose something higher.

✝ Jesus forgave from the cross, even without an apology.
✝ Joseph forgave the brothers who sold him into slavery.
✝ David refused to take revenge on Saul when he had the chance.
✝ Stephen asked God not to hold the sin against the men who were stoning him.

None of those stories suggest the harm was minor. None of them suggest pretending nothing happened. Instead, they show people who decided not to let the offense own them. That is not weakness. That is strength that most of us are still learning.

Forgiveness does not mean pretending the wound was small. It does not mean returning to unsafe situations. It does not mean instant trust or automatic reconciliation. Sometimes we confuse forgiveness with access. Releasing someone in prayer does not require reopening the door to harm. Forgiveness releases the debt. Wisdom rebuilds boundaries. Both can exist at the same time.

I am beginning to believe that forgiveness is less of a one-time statement and more of a process we walk through intentionally. It rarely happens in a single emotional moment. It unfolds.

• First, the trespass has to be named honestly. Calling it what it was matters.

• Second, the wound has to be acknowledged. Anger, disappointment, grief, and even embarrassment deserve space.

• Third, the expectation of an apology may need to be surrendered. Waiting for someone else to make things right can keep the heart tied to the offense.

• Fourth, forgiveness becomes a decision before it becomes a feeling. Feelings often follow obedience, not the other way around.

• Fifth, praying for the offender’s well-being stretches the soul in ways that nothing else does. It feels unnatural at first, yet it softens something inside.

• Sixth, the mind must be retrained when memories resurface. Replaying the offense keeps it alive. Replacing it with truth changes its power.

• Finally, peace must be reclaimed deliberately. Forgiveness is not primarily for the offender’s comfort. It is for our freedom.

Recently, while lifting weights, I was reminded of the difference between a load that builds strength and one that causes injury. A manageable weight challenges muscles and promotes growth. A weight that exceeds capacity strains joints and alters posture. Unforgiveness resembles that excessive load. It tightens the spirit and slowly distorts perspective. The offense may have originated with someone else, yet the ongoing burden becomes ours when we carry it indefinitely.

The Lord’s Prayer invites us into a rhythm of daily release. Asking God to forgive our trespasses while refusing to forgive others creates tension in the spirit. Integrity requires alignment between what we pray and how we live. The process is not quick, and it is rarely neat. Some offenses require repeated surrender. Healing often comes in layers. Still, holding onto bitterness guarantees continued internal strain.

Perhaps forgiveness is not about excusing wrongdoing at all. Perhaps it is about survival. Refusing to let another person’s trespass dictate our emotional and spiritual health is an act of stewardship. Releasing the weight does not erase history, yet it protects the future. Blooming requires letting go of what suffocates growth. Peace, though sometimes hard-won, remains lighter than resentment.

And so, if you are like me and still working through this, still lifting something that feels heavier than it should, then maybe we can go to God together. I am not writing this from the other side of forgiveness. I am writing from the middle of it. I am naming the trespass. I am acknowledging the wound. I am choosing, sometimes daily, to release what I would rather hold onto. If you find yourself in that same place, let us pray.

Father, You see every boundary that has been crossed and every place where our hearts have been bruised. You also see the places where we have crossed lines ourselves. Teach me how to release what is too heavy for me to carry. Forgive me for my trespasses, and help me to forgive those who have trespassed against me. Guard my heart from bitterness before it takes root. Heal what still aches. Retrain my thoughts when they drift back to old wounds. Give me the courage to lay this down, even when it feels justified to hold it. Help me bloom beyond what hurt me. Amen.

In love and charity,

Giselle (aka) Blooming-Lillie