This Morning, Someone Reminded Me Who I Was Twenty-Two Years Ago

This morning, someone reminded me of who I was twenty-two years ago.

Then Jesus reminded me of who He has been every step of the way.

A woman reached out to me and shared the pain she experienced as a teenager when our lives intersected years ago.

As a Christian mother who deeply loved Jesus and desired to train my children and influence their peers toward Him, I found myself in a situation back then that I did not manage well.

Her words stopped me in my tracks.

As I listened, I found myself grieving—not because I disagreed with her experience, but because I could see that my words and actions may have contributed to wounds she was still carrying all these years later. I know that I loved Jesus then, just as I do now. But I also know that twenty-two years ago, I was still carrying fears, trauma, and false beliefs that shaped how I saw myself and others.

Looking back, I can see places where fear may have sounded like wisdom, where control may have masqueraded as righteousness, and where legalism may have overshadowed the grace and love of Christ.

I take full responsibility for the way I responded back then. I am truly sorry for any pain I caused. To this woman—and to anyone else I may have wronged over the years, knowingly or unknowingly—I ask for forgiveness.

As I sat with her words this morning, the Lord led me to 2 Corinthians 2. Paul writes:

“For out of much affliction and anguish of heart I wrote to you with many tears; not so that you would be made sorrowful, but that you might know the love which I have especially for you.” (2 Corinthians 2:4)

Paul understood something that I am still learning: loving Jesus does not exempt us from hurting others. Even our attempts to guide, correct, and protect can miss the heart of God when they flow from fear instead of love.

What struck me most in this chapter was Paul's call to forgiveness and restoration:

“You should rather forgive and comfort him, otherwise such a one might be overwhelmed by excessive sorrow. Wherefore I urge you to reaffirm your love for him.” (2 Corinthians 2:7–8)

Paul wasn't interested in winning arguments or proving himself right. His desire was restoration. He wanted the Corinthians to understand that correction without love crushes people, while truth wrapped in grace leads them back into relationship.

As Christians, we often ask ourselves, “What would Jesus say?” But perhaps another question is equally important:

What do we do when we realize we did not act as Jesus would have?

The temptation is to defend ourselves, explain our intentions, or minimize another person's pain. Yet humility invites us to do something different.

Humility allows us to say:

“I was wrong.”

“I may have hurt you.”

“Will you forgive me?”

Humility does not require us to carry shame forever, nor does it ask us to take responsibility for another person's entire story. It simply asks us to bring our failures into the light and trust that Jesus is still transforming us.

Paul goes on to write:

“...forgive...so that no advantage would be taken of us by Satan, for we are not ignorant of his schemes.” (2 Corinthians 2:10–11)

As I reflected on those words, I wondered if one of the enemy's oldest schemes is convincing us that our wounds—or the wounds we have caused—must define us forever.

He whispers to the wounded, “Hold on to your pain.”

He whispers to the one who caused the hurt, “Protect yourself. Hide. Defend your reputation.”

Jesus offers another way.

He invites the wounded into healing.

He invites the offender into repentance.

He invites both into freedom.

No matter how many years we have been carrying pain, resentment, shame, or sorrow, Jesus longs to heal us and make us whole. He is not intimidated by our wounds, our regrets, or the stories we have replayed for decades. He gently invites us to bring every broken place into His presence.

Today, I am grateful for a woman brave enough to tell me the truth about her pain. I am grateful for a Savior gentle enough to meet me in my own grief over it. And I am grateful that the gospel makes room for both confession and forgiveness.

I cannot change who I was twenty-two years ago.

But I can humble myself today.

I can ask forgiveness.

I can extend forgiveness.

I can pray for peace and healing—for her and for anyone else I may have hurt along the way.

And I can trust that the same Jesus who has patiently healed my wounds is patiently pursuing theirs.

Because the beautiful truth of the gospel is not that Christians always get it right.

It is that Christ never stops making us new.

Shel Dammann

Rhythms of Grace 2026