Regret, humility, and learning to forgive aloud
As I stepped into 2026, the word that anchored my year was, yes, anchored—a reminder to stay held steady in God, no matter what the months would bring.
January started off with rooted, an invitation to grow quietly and deeply, drawing life from Him rather than from circumstances.
February’s word is grounded, and I thought I understood it. I assumed it meant balance, perspective, keeping my feet on the earth. This 1st week of February, God corrected me.
To be grounded is not just to stand firm—it is to kneel.
Being grounded means being bowed in worship, fully aware that God alone deserves our ultimate devotion. Not grief. Not fear. Not people. Not outcomes. Just Him.
This week has taught me that grounding is less about self-control and more about surrender. From this place—anchored, rooted, and now grounded—I am learning to forgive more honestly, to speak with humility, and to worship with my whole heart.
Bible reading 📚
Ephesians 4:26-27, 31-32 NIV
[26] “In your anger do not sin”: Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry, [27] and do not give the devil a foothold... [31] Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. [32] Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.
Reflection 🙌
Grief has a way of grounding us.
It strips life back to essentials and leaves little room for pride, delay, or half-said truths. February’s word for me is grounded, and my brother’s passing has pressed that word deep into my spirit.
Being grounded doesn’t mean being weighed down.
It means being honest about what really matters.
One of the clearest lessons grief has taught me is this: forgiveness is not only about someone saying I’m sorry. It is also about being humble enough to accept that apology—and humble enough to say, clearly and aloud, I forgive you.
Not assumed.
Not implied through actions alone.
But spoken.
Because silence can be misread.
Time can distort intentions.
And unspoken forgiveness can quietly turn into regret.
Regret lingers in unanswered questions: Did they know? Did they leave this world believing they were still at fault? Did my silence feel like distance instead of grace?
Scripture often speaks of humility—not as weakness, but as strength. To be clothed in humility is to be quick to confess, slow to defend, and willing to choose peace before the sun goes down. Not because everything is resolved, but because love matters more than being right.
❤️🙌
My brother’s passing has slowed me down and brought me back to the ground beneath my feet. It has reminded me that love is fragile, time is uncertain, and words matter more than we think. If this season has taught me anything, it is this: humility is not just in apologising, but in forgiving—fully, clearly, and in words.
And I am learning that forgiveness is one of the strongest anchors we can throw—heavy enough to hold us steady, gentle enough to release what no longer needs carrying.
To say I forgive you is not to excuse pain.
It is to free both the other soul and our own.
Grief insists on this truth: don’t leave it too late. Say the words while breath remains. Let forgiveness be heard, not guessed.
Because regret grows in silence—
and forgiveness, spoken aloud, has the power to set hearts free.
May we live more grounded.
May we remain anchored in grace.
And may regret find no place to settle where forgiveness has been spoken
Prayer 🙏
God of mercy and truth,
ground our hearts when grief shakes us,
and anchor us in love when words feel hard to say.
Teach us humility—not the kind that hides in silence,
but the kind that speaks forgiveness with courage and care.
Where regret threatens to linger,
replace it with peace.
Where pride holds us back,
give us the grace to let go.
Help us to say the words that matter
while time and breath remain.
In Jesus name, Amen 🙏
To God be the glory always 🙏❤️
Idau Hahine 