Letting Go. Finding Grace.
A Sigh. A Whisper. A Sacred Release.
This is the third post in a four-part series inspired by a scene in the show THE PITT, where adult children sit at the bedside of their dying father and are encouraged to say four simple things:
I love you.Thank you.I forgive you.Please forgive me.
These phrases also form the heartbeat of The Four Things That Matter Most, written by Dr. Ira Byock - - a palliative care physician who has spent decades listening to what really needs to be said before it’s too late.
We’ve already reflected on “I love you” and “Thank you.” Now we come to one of the hardest, most sacred of them all:
I forgive you.
Let’s be honest - - this one isn’t easy. “I forgive you” may be the most difficult sentence on the list. It doesn’t show up without a backstory. It comes dragging behind it a wound. A betrayal. A silence. A disappointment that left a mark.
And yet - - Forgiveness is what sets us free.
As Lewis Smedes once wrote:
“To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.”
I used to think that quote was beautiful but a bit dramatic - - until I forgave someone I never thought I could:
My biological father.
He left before I could form a sentence, let alone hear one from him. I have no memory of his voice. No photographs together. No answers to the million questions a child doesn’t know how to ask.
For a long time, my forgiveness was held hostage by silence. By what never got said. And honestly? I thought I’d made peace with it—until something inside me whispered, “But did you ever forgive him?”
That whisper turned into a quiet reckoning. And somewhere along the way—without fanfare or closure—I did.
And just like Smedes promised… I discovered that the prisoner had been me.
Look, I didn’t throw a party. I didn’t send him a card in the afterlife. There was no angel choir or Oprah moment. Just an internal shift.
A loosening.
A letting go.
A long exhale I didn’t know I’d been holding.
That’s the strange and sacred thing about forgiveness:
Sometimes it’s a conversation.Sometimes it’s a grave you whisper over.Sometimes it’s a journal entry you don’t even mean to write.Sometimes it’s just deciding not to carry the weight into tomorrow.
Forgiveness isn’t a magic wand. It doesn’t make everything okay. It doesn’t erase pain or excuse what happened. It doesn’t mean you go back to how things were.
It just means this: You’ve decided not to give bitterness the final word.
Forgiveness is not weakness. It’s strength - - with a scar. It’s grace that has walked through fire - - and still chooses to walk forward.
Sometimes the person you need to forgive is no longer here. Maybe they never got it. Maybe they never will. But the beauty of forgiveness is this:
It’s not always for them. It’s for you - - so your heart can stop clenching. So you can breathe easier. So you can live lighter.
Sometimes forgiveness looks like cleaning out a garage:
You don’t want to do it. It’s a mess. But once you start, you realize how much useless stuff you’ve been holding onto.
Sometimes it’s one trembling sentence:
“I forgive you. Not because it was okay. But because I want to be.”
Forgiveness might not look holy. It might not feel sacred. But I promise you—it is.
It’s one of the strangest altars we kneel at. Not carved from stone. Not lit with candles. But built from vulnerability. Grief. Honesty. Strength.
And when we let go of what we thought we’d carry forever - - something sacred rises in its place.
That is your Unlikely Altar.
Because sometimes, the most sacred thing we ever do is let go.
Sometimes gratitude whispers for years before it finally finds words. That was the case with my stepdad. A while back, I wrote a blog post thanking him—not because it was Father’s Day, and not because anyone asked. Just because it was time. Because something in me needed to name what he had been for me. Here’s what I wrote: One day, my mom brought home a man who seemed enormous. Over six feet tall, driving a Chevy station wagon that felt like a spaceship to a kid who had only known a one-parent universe. At the time, I didn’t know how to name it. But something began to shift. He didn’t try to replace anyone. He didn’t make promises or declarations. He just… stayed. Through the slammed doors, the smart mouth, the years when I gave him every reason to walk away, he didn’t. His name was Warren. He never asked to be anyone’s hero. But as I think about it, he was mine. He passed away a few years ago. And while I told him thank you in a hundred little ways over the years, I don’t know if I ever said all of this. I hope he knew. I think he did. I’m grateful I had the chance to write those words. But still—there’s always that ache: Did I ever really say it to him? Did he hear the “thank you” in the way I meant it? Did I say it enough? That’s why this phrase—Thank you—matters so much. It’s one of the four things we’re told to say to someone who’s dying. But I wonder if it’s something we’re meant to say much sooner. Much more often. In THE PITT , when a father is dying and his adult children are encouraged to speak four parting sentences to him, one of them is simple: Thank you. Not thank you for being perfect. Not thank you for never letting me down. Instead, it is thank you for what you gave. Thank you for what you tried. Thank you for loving me the best way you knew how. Dr. Ira Byock, the palliative care physician behind this four-part framework, says that ‘ thank you ’ is not just etiquette. It’s healing. It allows both the dying and the living to make peace with what’s been, and maybe even with what’s been missing. But too often, we wait. We assume people know. Or we run out of time. When I sit with families after a death, they tell stories that glow—memories of kindness. Quiet sacrifices. Everyday grace. You can feel the gratitude woven through the grief. But I always wonder: Did the person they’re remembering ever hear this? Did the stepdad know the difference he made? Did the teacher ever hear that she changed someone’s life? Did the friend know they were someone’s lifeline? Gratitude lives in our hearts. But it doesn’t always make it to our lips. Saying thank you isn’t just good manners. It’s soul work. It turns fleeting moments into something lasting. Not just thank you for the big things. But for the faithful, often-forgotten ones: Thank you for doing the dishes when I couldn’t get out of bed. Thank you for picking me up in that spaceship of a station wagon. Thank you for sticking around when you didn’t have to. These aren’t throwaway lines. They’re bricks in the foundation of love. And when spoken aloud, they build something sacred. These days, I try to say it out loud. On purpose. To the people who stay. To the ones who hold steady. To the ones who never ask for credit but deserve it anyway. To my boys. To friends. To the stranger who smiles when I most need grace. Gratitude doesn’t fix everything. But it softens the rough places. It redeems the quiet ones. It builds an altar where we least expect it. Think of someone you’re quietly grateful for—and tell them. Not with a grand gesture. Just a text. A phone call. A few words at the kitchen sink. Thank you for what you did. Thank you for being there. I noticed. I remember. Those words don’t just express love. They become an Unlikely Altar .
I never heard my biological father say I love you. But the truth is—I am pretty sure I never heard him say anything. I have no real memory of him at all. He left before I could even form a sentence, let alone hear one from him. There’s a strange kind of silence that comes with abandonment. Not just the absence of love, but the absence of a chance at love. I don’t know what his voice sounded like. I don’t know if he ever wondered about me. But I do know what it’s like to grow up without a father’s words, especially those three: I love you. And then, years later, when my mom died—and not long after, my stepdad too—I wasn’t there to say those words to them, either. Not in person. Not at the end. They knew, of course. We had love, real and steady. But still—I would have given anything to sit beside them, hold their hand, and say it out loud. Not because they needed to hear it, but because I needed to say it. That’s why we start here—with this phrase. I love you. Three words that are simple. Sacred. And sometimes, spoken too late. We act like “I love you” belongs to romance movies or greeting cards or perfectly timed dinner dates. But real love doesn’t wait for the perfect scene. It shows up in kitchens and parking lots. In hospice rooms and voicemails. It shows up trembling and overdue. It shows up clumsy and cracked. But when it’s real, it matters. In one episode of THE PITT , a father is dying. His adult children are encouraged to say four things to him before he goes. One of them is “I love you.” It’s not tidy. It doesn’t fix the past. But it lets something sacred come into the room. Sometimes that’s all love needs: a voice, and enough courage to speak. We assume people know how we feel. We think our actions speak loud enough. We wait for the right time. But I love you isn’t just a farewell. It’s a way of being. A kind of spiritual punctuation that should show up regularly, not rarely. Not the performative kind of love. The practiced kind. The daily, quiet, ordinary kind: I love you, even when the house is loud and no one’s listening. I love you, even when we’ve been distant. I love you, even when I forgot to show it yesterday. Maybe you didn’t grow up in a family that said it. Maybe it still feels awkward or unnecessary. Maybe it’s easier to crack a joke or give a hug than to speak the actual words. Say them anyway. Even if they come out sideways. Even if they sound clumsy. Say them before you wish you had. When I sit with families to learn about a loved one who has passed away, I’m always amazed—and if I’m honest, often saddened—by how rarely I love you gets mentioned. Not because love wasn’t there, but because it went unspoken. Maybe they just weren’t the “say it out loud” type. Maybe they assumed it was understood. It’s part of why I make it a point to tell my boys I love them every time we talk. We don’t hang up the phone without saying it - - ever. It’s not dramatic or emotional. It’s just what we do. A habit of the heart. A way of marking the moment and reminding each other: This matters. You matter. Because I love you is an altar. And when it shows up late, or soft, or bravely spoken in a place it’s rarely heard. It becomes an Unlikely Altar.
Sometimes, the altar isn’t built of stone. No stained glass. No priest in a robe. Just a hospital room, a folding chair, and the uncomfortable realization that this might be the last real conversation you ever have with someone you love. Not exactly the setting we picture when we think of holiness. And yet—there it is. In one unforgettable episode of THE PITT , the adult children sit at the bedside of their dying father. Someone suggests they tell their dad four simple things. Not a speech. Not a grand gesture. Just four, quiet sentences: I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Please forgive me. That moment felt like holy ground. No lightning bolt. No choir of angels. But something sacred settled into the air, like grace in street clothes. These four phrases come from the work of Dr. Ira Byock, a renowned palliative care physician who’s spent his life helping people die well—and helping the rest of us not completely blow the chance to say what matters most. In his book The Four Things That Matter Most, Dr. Byock distills a career’s worth of bedside wisdom into a simple but profound truth: when people are dying, what they most need—and what we most need to say—can be boiled down to these four sentences. They don’t fix everything. They don’t erase the past. But they open a door. And often, that’s enough. Dr. Byock’s framework echoes the deeper rhythms of Hoʻoponopono, a traditional Hawaiian practice of reconciliation and restoration. In its original form, families would come together to “make things right” through confession, forgiveness, and mutual accountability—sometimes with the help of a spiritual elder or healer. It was part therapy, part liturgy, part family intervention. The goal wasn’t to win. It was to heal. And isn’t that what we all want in the end? Here’s the part that keeps gnawing at me: Why do we wait until someone’s dying to say the truest things? Why do we save our best words—the vulnerable ones, the ones that crack us open—for the deathbed instead of the dinner table? Why do we think we have time? Maybe those four phrases aren’t just for the dying. Maybe they’re for the living, too. Maybe they’re not only the last things we say — but the things that hold us together all along. Think of them as a kind of relational liturgy. A four-part prayer for love in the real world. I love you - - Not the greeting-card version, but the kind that holds steady through disappointment and dishes left in the sink. Thank you - - A daily practice of naming what we usually overlook. I forgive you - - Not because it’s easy, but because bitterness is heavier than it looks. Please forgive me - - T he most human of all prayers. These aren’t just nice sentiments. They are sacred tools. And most of the time, we forget we’re holding them. So, over the next four posts, we’ll open each phrase like an offering—not just for the dying, but for the living who are stumbling through love and loss in real time. You won’t find case studies or dramatic TV scenes here. Only real stories—the kind that linger, surprise, or quietly change everything. You don’t need a diagnosis to speak these words. You don’t need a priest, a perfect script, or a mountaintop. You just need a relationship worth fighting for. A moment of honesty. And maybe a little courage. Because the sacred doesn’t always arrive in robes and incense. Sometimes it sounds like “I’m sorry,” whispered over coffee. Sometimes it’s a shaky “Thank you” muttered in the car. Sometimes it’s a plain sentence, said just in time. It doesn’t look like much. A sigh. A sentence. A pause. But that’s the thing about Unlikely Altars — sometimes they show up dressed like ordinary life.