An Altar Built From Ashes
Burned Down. Cracked Open. Still Holy.
Let’s just admit something up front:
Asking for forgiveness feels like walking into a room naked,
holding a plate of burnt cookies.
You feel exposed. Awkward. Unsure if what you’re offering is enough—or even edible. It’s terrifying. It’s humbling. And yet, it might be one of the most sacred things we ever do.
This is the final post in a four-part series shaped by a tender moment from the show THE PITT, and grounded in the wisdom of palliative care physician Dr. Ira Byock. In his book, The Four Things That Matter Most, he names four phrases we often wait too long to say:
- I love you.
- Thank you.
- I forgive you.
- Please forgive me.
We’ve explored the first three—words that mend, release, and reconnect.
But this last one? It’s the most vulnerable of all.
“Please forgive me” places the power in someone else’s hands. And that’s exactly what makes it holy.
It means admitting you’re not always the hero in someone else’s story. It’s saying, “I messed up. I see it now. I wish I had done better. And I hope we can begin again.”
To ask for forgiveness is to lay down your armor—your excuses, your good intentions, your pride. It’s not weakness. It’s the beginning of wisdom.
We lose our temper. We say the joke that cuts too deep. We go silent when someone needed our voice. We love poorly—or not at all. To say “Please forgive me” is to stop hiding and take ownership for our impact.
It’s not self-hatred. It’s self-awareness. And it may be the first true step toward healing.
I’ve made mistakes - - big ones and small ones. The kind that wakes you up at night. The kind you still defend in your head. The kind you wish more than anything you could undo.
And somewhere along the way, I learned this:
Guilt says, “You did wrong.”
Shame says, “You are wrong.”
Guilt can lead to growth.
Shame just keeps you stuck.
Grace, however, speaks a different word altogether:
“Yes, you messed up. But that’s not all you are.”
It tells you your failures don’t have the final word. That you're more than your worst moments. And that healing is still possible.
You can’t change the past. But you can reshape the future.
And sometimes all it takes… is a few brave words.
Forgiveness doesn’t always look the same.
Sometimes it’s a trembling phone call. Sometimes it’s a letter you never send.
Sometimes it’s standing at a gravesite, whispering, “I’m sorry,” to someone who can no longer answer - - because you need to say it anyway.
Sometimes it’s silence.
Sometimes it’s tears you didn’t expect.
Sometimes it’s finally being able to exhale.
“Please forgive me” isn’t etiquette. It’s a sacred act. It says, “I’m taking responsibility. I’m choosing honesty. I’m choosing love over ego.”
It might sound like:
- “I didn’t know how to love you back then. I’m sorry.”
- “I wish I had shown up better for you.”
- “I know I hurt you, and I want to own that.”
- “Please forgive me—not because I’ve earned it, but because I’m asking in love.”
It won’t always be clean. Or poetic. But it might be real enough to begin again.
This may be the most fragile altar we ever build.
It doesn’t look like a church or a ceremony.
It looks like a shaky voice at a kitchen table. A voicemail you almost didn’t leave. A tear-streaked prayer whispered into the quiet: “Please forgive me.”
It’s an altar of humility. Of trying again. Of giving love another chance.
It’s an Unlikely Altar—because it rises from our flaws, not our strengths.
And still, somehow, it’s the very place grace loves to meet us.
Paul starts his letter to the Philippians the way he starts almost every letter he ever wrote — with two simple words that sound like a benediction and a blessing all at once: “ Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. ” Grace and peace. It’s easy to glide right past them. After all, Paul says it so often it can sound like his version of, “ Dear friends, hope you’re doing well. ” But those words are anything but filler. They’re the opening line of a letter written from prison — a man in chains sending light through a keyhole. That’s the thing about grace and peace. They don’t wait for better conditions. When Paul writes, he doesn’t start with complaints about the guards or the food or how cold the nights are. He doesn’t list his injuries or beg for sympathy. Instead, he offers what he himself most needs: grace and peace. I’ve come to believe that the words we offer the world when we’re hurting reveal what’s deepest in us. For Paul, it was this stubborn conviction that God was still at work, even in confinement — that grace still flowed and peace was still possible. Grace and Peace Paul begins with two words that still have the power to stop me in my tracks: grace and peace. He could’ve opened with something more ordinary — Dear friends , or Hang in there . But instead, from a cell that smelled of iron and damp stone, he chooses a blessing. He leads with joy. Grace — that wild, unearned love that shows up even when we’ve done nothing to deserve it. Grace is the quiet voice that says, “ You’re still min e.” It’s the kind of love that doesn’t wait for you to get your act together. It just walks right into your mess and sits down beside you. And peace — not the fragile kind that depends on calm seas or perfect days, but the kind that holds steady when the waves are high. The kind that whispers, “ You’re okay, even here .” I love that Paul links the two together, because grace without peace feels unfinished, and peace without grace feels forced. Together they form a rhythm — grace that reaches, peace that remains . And maybe that’s what Paul was really offering: a new way to begin. Can you imagine if those were the first words we spoke to each other every morning? Joy to you. Peace to you. Every kind of good to you. How different a day might feel if it started there — not with headlines or hurry, but with blessing. Maybe that’s the secret of Paul’s letter: that even in a place built to break him, he still believed goodness could find a way through the cracks. So what would it look like to practice this? Maybe it starts small — whispering “grace and peace” toward the people you don’t even like. Or toward yourself when that inner critic starts its sermon again. So what would it look like to practice this? Maybe it’s learning to pause, breathe peace, and offer grace instead. When gossip starts — grace and peace . When the argument heats — grace and peace. When you replay the hurt that still stings — grace and peace . Interrupt the old patterns with blessing. The early church actually practiced this. In Acts 14 and 20, believers would commend one another to God’s grace before sending them out. They’d gather, pray, lay on hands, and say, “You are given over to God’s grace and peace.” What if we did that? What if we treated every conversation, every cup of coffee, every parting at the door as a small commissioning — giving one another over to grace and peace before we go back into the world? A Roman prison doesn’t sound like much of a sanctuary, but Paul found one there. Maybe that’s the invitation — to find our own Unlikely Altars , the places where grace still surprises us and peace somehow holds. If I’m honest, I’m preaching to myself here. I could use a little grace and peace most mornings before the second Mountain Dew. So wherever you are today — in traffic, in grief, in the middle of a week that feels like too much — hear this old, stubborn greeting again: Grace and peace to you. Not someday. Not when you’ve earned it. Right now .
Some of the best letters ever written came from prison. Not cozy writer’s retreats, not beach houses, not corner offices with ocean views. Prisons. Paul’s letters from Rome. Bonhoeffer’s from Tegel. Martin Luther King Jr.’s from Birmingham. Each penned behind locked doors, on borrowed paper, with hope that somehow the words might slip past the guards and make it into the world. And they did. What fascinates me is not just what they wrote, but where they wrote it from. It’s one thing to talk about faith or freedom or joy when you’re standing on a stage. It’s another when your only audience is a damp wall and a single beam of light. Paul starts his letter to the Philippians with the same two words he used so often: grace and peace. Not resentment. Not a plea for bail. Grace and peace. As if he’s saying, “Yes, I’m chained up—but I’m free where it counts.” That’s what hooked me. Because I’ve learned that “prison” doesn’t always have bars. Sometimes it looks like grief. Or waiting rooms. Or a quiet house after someone’s gone. Sometimes it’s a job that’s lost its meaning, or a season when God seems to have stepped out for coffee and hasn’t come back yet. We’ve all got our versions. And maybe—just maybe—the letters we write ( or live ) from those places are the ones that matter most. The ones we didn’t plan on writing. The ones that bleed a little truth and hum with hope in spite of it all. When Bonhoeffer wrote from his cell, he wasn’t trying to be profound—he was trying to stay human. He wrote about missing his fiancée, about books he wished he had, about the longing to see the sky. And in between the lines of the ordinary came the sacred: “ Only the suffering God can help .” When Dr. King wrote from Birmingham Jail, he wasn’t crafting a masterpiece—he was answering a letter from fellow pastors who told him to wait. “ Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere, ” he replied, with chains on his wrists and conviction in his voice. And Paul—well, he wrote to say thank you. To encourage. To remind a fledgling community that joy doesn’t depend on circumstances. He wrote about grace, love, partnership, deliverance, and struggle—words that still breathe life into our own small confinements. Maybe the best letters come from prison because that’s where honesty and hope have to share the same cell. And maybe that’s what makes it an Unlikely Altar . A place where faith is stripped to its bones, where prayers sound less like poetry and more like breathing, and where grace shows up in the least graceful places imaginable. Over the next few posts, I want to walk through Philippians chapter one—slowly. Not to decode it, but to dwell in it. To listen for the heartbeat behind the bars. We’ll start where Paul starts: with grace and peace . Then move into gratitude for the good work God’s still doing ( even when it feels like He’s on break ). We’ll talk about what it means to hold people in your heart, to let love abound, to trust in deliverance, and to find solidarity in struggle. You don’t have to be in prison to get it. You just have to know what it’s like to feel stuck—to long for something freer, deeper, truer. This series isn’t about how to escape. It’s about what you can discover when you can’t. Because maybe the sacred still writes letters from the places we’d rather forget. And maybe the God who showed up in Paul’s cell still shows up in ours—reminding us that grace can grow in concrete cracks, and peace can find a way through iron bars. Grace and peace! Let’s open this letter together.
There’s a sound every cyclist knows — the click of clipping in. For me, it’s one of the most satisfying sounds in the world. That tiny, metallic click says, You’re connected. You’re ready. Let’s ride. It’s also the sound I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear again after my crash. A patch of slush, one bad angle, and an ankle full of hardware later, I found myself grounded for months — and eventually years — before I was able to really ride again. Add Sjögren’s Disease into the mix, and the idea of climbing back on the bike sometimes felt more like foolish nostalgia than wisdom. But grace has a way of whispering, Try again. And so, I did. The first time I clipped in again, I smiled. Not because it was easy — it wasn’t. But because I realized the road still had more to teach me. There’s something holy about motion — even slow, hesitant motion. About wind on your face and breath in your lungs. About knowing the ride won’t be perfect but pedaling anyway. Because the truth is, life rarely gives you tailwinds. Most days, it’s a mix of potholes and headwinds and st retches of rough pavement that test more than your legs. But grace doesn’t wait for the perfect road. Grace rides with you — through the wobble, the pain, the wind, and the weariness. What does that really mean? It means grace is the quiet companion drafting just behind you — not pushing harder, but keeping you from quitting. Grace isn’t the coach yelling from the sidelines; it’s the presence that matches your cadence, breath for breath, mile for mile. Grace doesn’t flatten the hills or calm the wind. It rides beside you through them. It steadies your shaking hands when you hit rough pavement. It gives you the courage to unclip when you need to stop — and the strength to clip back in when you’re ready to move again. Grace shows up in the quietest ways — a moment of laughter in the middle of exhaustion, a friend who calls at the right time, a peace that comes out of nowhere when you thought you were done. Sometimes it’s not even words. It’s breath. It’s presence. It’s that deep-down knowing that you’re not riding alone, even when no one else is on the road. And every now and then, grace even lets you coast. The road has become an Unlikely Altar for me — the place where faith and fatigue meet, where sweat becomes prayer, and where I remember that grace doesn’t mean ease. It means presence. When I ride now, I don’t measure distance or speed the way I used to. I measure gratitude — for the ability to move, to breathe, to clip in one more time. Maybe that’s the quiet gift of age, of injury, of illness — you learn that the point was never perfection, but participation. You get back on the bike not because the road is smooth, but because the ride itself is sacred. So if you find yourself staring at a road that looks long, uneven, or uphill, take a breath. Clip in. Start pedaling. Grace doesn’t clear the path. It keeps you company on the ride. You’re never alone on the ride.