When people wrong us, you say, God, I choose to forgive this

Host: The churchyard lay wrapped in a slow winter dusk, the sky pale gray, touched with the faint gold of a fading sun. The bare trees stood like sentinels, their branches trembling against the cold. Inside the small chapel, the air was warm and still — filled with the faint scent of wood polish and candle smoke.

At the last pew, Jack sat in quiet solitude, his head bowed, his hands clasped, the look of a man trying to hold the pieces of something invisible together. Jeeny entered softly, her boots echoing faintly against the old wood floor, a wool scarf draped over her shoulders. She paused for a moment, watching him — the way grief and reflection can look so alike.

Jeeny: “Jim Bob Duggar once said, ‘When people wrong us, you say, God, I choose to forgive this person. And sometimes people come back and ask for forgiveness, and sometimes people don’t.’”

Jack: quietly, not looking up “And sometimes they never will.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But that’s the point. Forgiveness doesn’t need permission.”

Jack: bitter laugh “Maybe. But it still feels like trying to build peace with empty hands.”

Host: The candlelight flickered, its shadows dancing across the walls — soft and alive, as though even the light understood the weight of letting go. The organ pipes in the corner gleamed faintly, silent now, but still holding the memory of old hymns.

Jeeny: “Forgiveness isn’t for them, Jack. It’s for you.”

Jack: “That’s what people say when they’ve never had to forgive something unforgivable.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But maybe that’s when forgiveness matters most.”

Host: Outside, a crow cawed, the sound carried by the wind, sharp and lonely. Inside, time slowed — the space between their words like breaths of prayer and hesitation.

Jack: finally looking up, voice rough “You ever try forgiving someone who doesn’t care they broke you?”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “And did it help?”

Jeeny: after a pause “Not at first. It felt like losing twice — first to their cruelty, then to my own surrender. But over time, it felt less like losing and more like breathing again.”

Jack: shaking his head slowly “I don’t know if I can do that. If I forgive, it’s like saying what they did was okay.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Forgiveness isn’t saying it was okay. It’s saying it no longer owns you.”

Host: The wind howled softly outside, rattling the old stained-glass windows. The colors flickered over their faces — red, blue, gold — like shards of emotion refracted through light.

Jack: “You sound like a sermon.”

Jeeny: “No. Sermons are for people who already believe. I’m just telling you what saved me.”

Jack: “From what?”

Jeeny: “From bitterness. It’s a quiet poison. It doesn’t kill all at once — just slowly, until there’s nothing left to save.”

Host: Jack rubbed his hands together, the skin worn and pale, as though the years had etched regret into every crease. He spoke softly, as if afraid the words might echo too loudly in this sacred place.

Jack: “I’ve spent years waiting for an apology that never came. Like time itself would deliver it, wrapped in repentance.”

Jeeny: “And did it?”

Jack: sad smile “No. Just silence.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that silence was your answer.”

Jack: turning toward her now, eyes tired but honest “You ever wonder if God forgives the ones who never ask?”

Jeeny: “All the time. But I think forgiveness is less about their asking and more about His nature.”

Jack: “So you think He forgives everyone?”

Jeeny: “I think He forgives because He can. And maybe that’s what He hopes we’ll learn — not to condone, but to release.”

Host: The candle nearest to them sputtered, its flame bending, then steadying again. It seemed to breathe with them — rising and falling in rhythm with the weight of the moment.

Jack: softly “You know, my father used to say forgiveness was weakness. That real strength meant remembering who hurt you.”

Jeeny: “Then he mistook scars for strength. Real strength is remembering and still choosing not to hate.”

Jack: quietly, almost to himself “Choosing not to hate…”

Jeeny: “Yes. Forgiveness is not forgetting. It’s remembering without venom.”

Host: The chapel door creaked, letting in a brief gust of cold air, then closed again. The sound was like punctuation in a sentence neither of them wanted to end.

Jack: “You think they ever regret it? The ones who never come back?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Maybe not. But their regret isn’t your freedom to wait for.”

Jack: “Then whose freedom is it?”

Jeeny: softly “Yours, Jack. Always yours.”

Host: He looked down, eyes glistening, and for a moment his fingers trembled — not with anger, but with something gentler, something like release beginning to form at the edges.

Jack: “It’s strange. I’ve spent years carrying their shadow. Maybe I was afraid that if I let it go, I’d lose the only proof that they mattered.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve already honored them more than they deserved.”

Jack: voice breaking slightly “And what if I don’t know how to forgive?”

Jeeny: “Then start by saying you want to. That’s how it begins — not with peace, but with willingness.”

Host: The light outside softened, the sun dipping below the horizon. The chapel glowed faintly in the dimming dusk — warm, golden, alive with the quiet pulse of mercy.

Jack: “You make it sound like forgiveness isn’t a decision.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s a process. You choose it once with your mind, then a thousand times again with your heart.”

Jack: nodding slowly “And maybe one day, it stops hurting.”

Jeeny: “No. But one day, it stops defining you.”

Host: The last candle burned lower, its flame shrinking but steady. Jeeny stood, adjusted her scarf, her voice calm, like prayer turned human.

Jeeny: “Kalam once said, ‘To succeed in your mission, you must have devotion to your goal.’ Forgiveness is the same — it’s devotion to peace, even when the world gives you every reason not to find it.”

Jack: after a long pause “You really think peace is possible?”

Jeeny: smiling gently “I don’t think. I’ve seen it.”

Host: Jack looked toward the altar, the crucifix catching the candlelight, its shadow stretching long across the pews. He breathed deeply, then closed his eyes, the faintest hint of calm settling across his face.

Jack: quietly “Maybe I’ll try.”

Jeeny: “That’s all forgiveness ever asks.”

Host: The candles flickered once, then steadied — small flames burning against the darkness, defiant yet peaceful.

And as the two of them walked toward the chapel door, the cold wind met them gently, carrying the faint scent of rain and earth — the scent of endings that were really beginnings.

Because forgiveness, as Kalam and Duggar both knew,
isn’t about the ones who come back.
It’s about the one who finally walks forward —
lighter, freer, whole.