The Things You Don’t See
Because Not All Sacred Places are Visible
This past Tuesday was National Sjögren’s Awareness Day. For the record, it’s pronounced SHOW-grins
- - like a cheerful facial expression, which is ironic since Sjögren’s is neither cheerful nor smile-inducing. And the color for the day (because every awareness day has a color) is blue, which is fitting, because some days with this disease, I feel pretty blue myself.
Sjögren's is an autoimmune disease that quietly disrupts the body’s ability to produce moisture - - leaving eyes painfully dry, mouths uncomfortably parched, and joints stiff and sore. But it doesn’t stop there. Fatigue, a deep, dragging fatigue, becomes a daily companion. Brain fog moves in like a heavy mist.
Muscles ache. Moods shift.
And all the while, you still look fine.
I have Sjögren’s. I was diagnosed just over two years ago, but looking back, I’ve been struggling with it far longer. I could never figure out why my mouth would go bone dry when I rode, ran, or preached. Or why my eyes were always red and irritated. And these days, it’s not just the dry mouth or eyes; the disease has changed so many aspects of my life.
Take cycling, for example. It used to be my happy place - - my prayer-on-wheels. Now I have to give myself a full TED Talk
just to get on the bike. Riding 20 miles feels like a cross-country trek. I’ve dreamed of running another half-marathon, but honestly? The thought alone exhausts me. Even typing that feels like remembering someone else’s life.
And yes - - others have it worse. People face far more painful, devastating diseases.
But still.
It’s a quiet toll - - always running in the background. Not dramatic enough to draw attention, not urgent enough to explain why I’m not quite myself. But real enough to shape every single day.
And here’s where it gets frustrating: even with a diagnosis, I’m not sure my rheumatologist fully understands the impact. We talk about dry eyes and dry mouth, sure, they’re part of it, but that barely scratches the surface. There’s also the unrelenting fatigue. The joint pain. The muscle aches. The brain fog. The poor sleep. The mood swings. And this general sense that my body just doesn’t bounce back anymore. Sometimes I try to explain how much my daily life has shifted - - how much effort even the “small” things take now. And I get the nod. You know the one. The polite, clinical nod.
- It’s hard to explain the grief of being diminished by something invisible.
- It’s hard to describe how lonely it feels when the world thinks you’re fine.
- It’s hard to keep pushing forward when your body keeps whispering, no, not today.
And it’s not just Sjögren’s that is invisible on the outside.
- It’s the chronic migraines.
- The long-haul COVID.
- The autoimmune mystery that doesn’t even have a name yet.
- The mental illness that hides behind a practiced smile.
- The pain carried by people who look perfectly fine on the outside.
- The battles no one sees - - because on the outside, everything looks perfect.
We are surrounded by people who are quietly struggling with things we cannot see. And that makes me wonder: what if these unseen battles are Unlikely Altars, too? Could this be what an Unlikely Altar looks like?
Not a holy place we walk into. But one we carry around inside us.
The altar where we lay down perfection and pick up grace.
The altar where we learn to listen to our body instead of pushing through.
The altar where we stop trying to keep up and start learning how to be kind—to ourselves and to others.
The altar where the broken parts are still beloved.
No, I wouldn’t choose this path. But I’m beginning to trust that even here - - even in the dryness, the fatigue, the quiet grief - - there is something sacred trying to emerge.
So, here’s my quiet invitation:
Let’s give each other more grace than we think is necessary.
Let’s assume people are carrying more than they’re saying.
Let’s practice kindness—not as sentiment, but as daily practice.
You never know what invisible weight someone is bearing.
And you never know when someone might look at you and think, Thank God, someone else understands.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
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.
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 .