Forgiveness is not a feeling - it's a decision we make because we

Host: The rain came down steady and soft, drumming on the tin roof of an old church at the edge of a small town. The stained-glass windows shimmered faintly with fractured light, like sorrow catching its last breath before dissolving into grace. Inside, the candles flickered along the altar, their flames trembling but unyielding — little soldiers of faith standing guard against the dark.

The pews were empty except for two figures. Jack sat hunched over in the front row, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in the silent language of men who wrestle with the unseen. Jeeny stood near the pulpit, her coat still damp from the storm, her voice low but unwavering — the kind of voice that had learned to speak truth through pain.

Jeeny: (reading quietly from her phone) “Joyce Meyer once said, ‘Forgiveness is not a feeling — it’s a decision we make because we want to do what’s right before God. It’s a quality decision that won’t be easy, and it may take time to get through the process, depending on the severity of the offense.’”

Jack: (after a pause) “A decision, huh? That makes it sound clean. Logical. But forgiveness… it feels anything but clean.”

Jeeny: “It’s not supposed to feel clean. It’s supposed to feel costly.”

Jack: “Then why do people talk about it like it’s liberation — like once you forgive, you float away free?”

Jeeny: “Because that’s the ending, Jack. Nobody talks about the middle — the bleeding part, the wrestling part. Forgiveness doesn’t start with freedom. It starts with obedience.”

Host: The rain intensified, washing against the tall windows with an almost musical rhythm. A single beam of light broke through the clouded sky, landing on the wooden cross behind the altar. The glow was faint, hesitant — as if heaven itself were whispering, try again.

Jack: “Obedience… you make it sound like a command.”

Jeeny: “It is. But not the kind that forces you. The kind that invites you to rise.”

Jack: “Rise above what?”

Jeeny: “Above bitterness. Above revenge. Above the lie that your pain has to define you.”

Jack: “And you think a decision can undo pain that deep?”

Jeeny: “Not undo it. Redeem it.”

Host: The wind sighed through the cracked wooden doors, carrying with it the faint scent of wet earth and something ancient — something like mercy.

Jack: “You talk about forgiveness like it’s faith.”

Jeeny: “It is. It’s faith in justice you can’t see and healing you can’t rush.”

Jack: “That sounds beautiful — but cruel, too. Because while you wait for that healing, the wound still bleeds.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But forgiveness isn’t about pretending the wound doesn’t exist. It’s about refusing to keep cutting yourself open to remember it.”

Jack: (quietly) “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t simple. Joyce said it — ‘depending on the severity of the offense.’ Some people can forgive in days. Others spend years trying. But the point is to keep choosing.”

Jack: “Choosing what?”

Jeeny: “Choosing not to let the wrong done to you become the person you are.”

Host: A bell tolled outside — distant, hollow, eternal. The sound echoed through the church like a heartbeat, marking the slow rhythm of grace learning to live again.

Jack: “You know, I used to think forgiveness meant saying, ‘It’s okay.’ But some things aren’t okay, Jeeny. Some things never will be.”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness doesn’t say, ‘It’s okay.’ It says, ‘It’s over.’ It stops the pain from dictating your tomorrow.”

Jack: “So it’s not about them — it’s about me.”

Jeeny: “It’s about both. You release them, and in doing so, you release yourself. That’s what Joyce meant — it’s a decision made ‘before God.’ Not before people, not before feelings. Before the only One who sees the whole story.”

Host: The candles flickered again as thunder rolled faintly in the distance. For a moment, the whole church seemed to exhale — the walls, the air, the silence between them.

Jack: “You talk about forgiveness like it’s holy.”

Jeeny: “It is. It’s the hardest form of holiness.”

Jack: “And what if the person you’re forgiving doesn’t care? What if they never apologize?”

Jeeny: “Then you forgive them anyway — not because they deserve peace, but because you do.”

Jack: “That sounds unfair.”

Jeeny: “It is unfair. Forgiveness always is. But grace was never built on fairness.”

Host: She walked slowly toward the altar, her footsteps echoing softly against the old wood. She touched one of the candles, adjusting its wick. The flame steadied.

Jeeny: “You see, forgiveness isn’t weakness. It’s power under control — the power to say, ‘You don’t get to decide who I am.’”

Jack: “And what about anger? You can’t just turn that off.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can starve it. Every time you choose to forgive, the anger has less to feed on. Until one day, it just... fades.”

Jack: “And when it doesn’t?”

Jeeny: “Then you forgive again. And again. Until peace feels more natural than pain.”

Host: The light from the window grew brighter, the storm outside easing. The sound of rain softened to a gentle tapping — as though the heavens were applauding their quiet revelation.

Jack: (after a long silence) “You’ve forgiven someone, haven’t you?”

Jeeny: (nodding slowly) “Yes. And it nearly broke me. But it also rebuilt me. Forgiveness didn’t erase what happened. It just kept it from owning my soul.”

Jack: “How long did it take?”

Jeeny: “Years. But every step felt like reclaiming a piece of myself.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Now, when I think of them, it doesn’t hurt. It’s just... quiet.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving behind only the faint dripping of water from the eaves. The air felt lighter, as if the storm had taken more than clouds with it.

Jack: “You know, I think I understand what Joyce meant by ‘quality decision.’ It’s not about feelings catching up to forgiveness — it’s about refusing to wait for them.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because if you wait to feel ready, you never will.”

Jack: “So the act of forgiving is like lighting a candle in the dark — not because the dark is gone, but because you refuse to live without light.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You choose light — again and again.”

Host: The church grew quiet, filled with the soft glow of the surviving candles. Outside, the clouds broke, revealing a thin band of blue — the promise of tomorrow, fragile but true.

And in that sacred silence, Joyce Meyer’s words echoed not as doctrine, but as divine practice:

That forgiveness is not the absence of pain,
but the presence of purpose.
That it is not a feeling, but a decision —
a moral and spiritual act of freedom.
And though it demands time, patience, and tears,
it remains the most human form of divine courage.

Host: The sunlight entered through the stained glass now, spilling colors across Jack’s hands — red, blue, gold — the hues of redemption.

Jack stood slowly, turning to Jeeny, his voice steady but soft.

Jack: “Then maybe forgiveness isn’t forgetting what broke you. Maybe it’s remembering — without letting it define you.”

Jeeny: “Yes, Jack. That’s when the wound becomes a witness.”

Host: Outside, the world glistened with new rain and clean light. The storm had passed —
and though the clouds lingered on the horizon,
the decision had been made.

Not by feeling,
but by faith.