I could probably fill a book with the experiences I’ve had with offense and its consequences, but the offense that impacted me most was the one I held against my mother and father.
I often bore the weight of my mother’s unresolved anger toward my father. Looking back, I can see that I became a sort of scapegoat for the offense she carried. When I spoke or acted in ways she didn’t approve of, she would lash out, comparing me to my father — calling me names and using hurtful words.
For years, I was caught in the crossfire of their unresolved conflict. My mother would give me messages to relay to my father, and he would do the same. I wanted to tell them to speak to each other directly, but I stayed silent to avoid being yelled at.
It wasn’t until I grew older that I realized that they were the adults and I wasn’t responsible for their actions or the pain they projected onto me. But that realization didn’t come without consequence — that was the point where offense took root in my heart. For many years I resented my parents for their treatment of me, and I even held offense toward God, wondering why He had allowed a child to endure such pain. The offense hardened my heart, fostering pride and causing me to push away people I cared about, mirroring some of the very behaviors I resented in my mother.
I was 41 when I began to see my parents through a different lens—one that allowed me to view them not just as the authority figures of my childhood, but as human beings shaped by their own struggles, wounds, and limitations. I considered their ages at the time of my conception, their maturity levels, and the gravity of the circumstances they faced. They were young, unprepared, and ill-equipped to navigate the weight of the situation before them. The more I reflected, the more I saw them not as the all-knowing figures I once believed them to be, but as flawed individuals doing the best they could with what they had.
My father told me he made peace with God and had attempted reconciliation with my mother. He acknowledges the past and, in his own way, seeks to mend what was broken. My mother, however, remains bound by offense, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to let go of the pain she carries. I hear it in her words even now, subtle yet unmistakable echoes of grief and unhealed wounds surfacing as one-sided conversations. There are moments when I glimpse the weight she bears, and I recognize that her hurt is not solely about me—it is a tapestry woven from the threads of her own unmet expectations, disappointments, and struggles.
It wasn’t until I truly factored in their humanity—their own traumas, limitations, and imperfections—that I found the strength to let go of the offense I had harbored for so long. I had carried it like a stone in my heart, a burden I didn’t realize had shaped so much of my inner world. But through prayer and deep introspection, I reached a turning point. I forgave my mother, my father, God—and even myself. I repented for the bitterness I had allowed to take root and for the years I spent holding onto the pain as if it somehow defined me.
Forgiveness did not magically repair my relationships, nor did it erase the wounds of the past. Even now, my relationships with both parents remain strained. I can tell my mother has not fully forgiven me for things I said in moments of hurt, words spoken in desperation to be seen and understood. My father and I have had hard conversations—necessary but painful dialogues that led me to establish boundaries for the sake of my own heart’s protection. While I long for reconciliation, I have also come to accept that it must happen in God’s timing, not mine. I trust Him to continue His work in their hearts, just as He continues to work in mine. His will be done, even if the restoration I desire does not come in the way I envision.
I have grieved—and still grieve—the absence of the kind of parental relationships I once wished for. There are moments when the longing resurfaces, when I feel the ache of what could have been. But grief no longer holds me captive. Instead, I have accepted the situation as it is, choosing to shift my focus away from what I lack and toward the abundant love of Christ. I fix my eyes on Him, allowing His grace to fill the spaces left empty by human imperfection. And I choose, daily, to be a light to others—to extend the kindness, patience, and love I once longed for.
Through this journey, I have come to a healthier place regarding offense. I have learned to recognize its whispers before they take hold, to pause and examine my heart when resentment begins to stir. I ask myself, Why do I feel this way? What is at the root of this emotion? And I consider the other person’s intentions—reminding myself that their actions are often shaped by their own wounds and struggles, just as mine were.
In the end, I choose not to let offense rule over me. Instead, I surrender it to God, trusting Him to work all things together for good in His perfect way. I may not always understand the timing or the reasons behind my circumstances, but I rest in the knowledge that His plans are greater than my own. And in that surrender, I find peace.
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