An Altar Built From Ashes

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 .