She slammed the front door hard enough to rattle the windows. Again.
Jamie stood frozen in the hallway, casserole dish in hand, watching his sister’s retreating silhouette disappear down the driveway. She hadn’t even stayed for dinner. Just a few harsh words, a sigh, and then the storm.
It wasn’t the first time. Family gatherings had turned into battlegrounds ever since their mother died. Words carried old wounds. And Jamie—he tried to keep the peace. He prayed for her. He texted her kind things even when she lashed out. But today?
Today he wanted to let go. To let her go.
That’s when the whisper came—one that sounded suspiciously unlike his own: “Love your enemies. Do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you” (Luke 6:27-28).
It doesn't get more direct than that, does it?
Jesus didn’t say love the easy ones. He didn’t say love the ones who love you back. He simply said: love. Do good. Bless. Pray.
Even when the casserole grows cold and your heart aches from trying again.
What kind of love asks us to bless someone who makes us feel small? Who ignores every effort? Who wounds and walks away?
The kind of love Jesus lived.
On His way to the cross, He saw faces that spat, fists that struck, voices that screamed for His death. Yet He stood there—silent, battered, unwavering. As the nails went in, the first words from His mouth weren’t curses. They were prayers.
“Father, forgive them…”
Maybe you’ve felt that too. That ache of loving someone who makes it hard. Maybe it’s your spouse, whose silence speaks louder than words. A parent you can’t forgive. A friend who won’t return kindness.
You’re not alone in that fight.
Romans 12 offers a strange kind of power. “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone... Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good” (Romans 12:18, 21).
Notice how Paul doesn’t promise that it will always be possible. He just says, “as far as it depends on you.”
That’s the freedom in forgiveness. You’re not responsible for their response—you’re only called to reflect Christ.
And Christ didn’t cave to evil. He conquered it with love.
We think love should feel good. But sometimes real love feels like bending low. Washing the feet of someone who has betrayed you. Cooking a meal for someone you'll never impress. Answering tension with grace. That’s what Jesus did.
And it changes us.
I think of Jamie, standing there with his mother’s Sunday casserole cradled in his hands like an offering. The scent of rosemary and roast shouting kindness into an empty hallway. He could’ve cursed. Turned off the porch light. But instead, he texted her again.
“I love you, sis. There’s a plate here for you.”
She didn’t answer—not that night. Maybe she wouldn’t. But maybe the message pushed through the thorns. Maybe light, even flickering, still finds cracks in the dark.
That’s the thing about Christlike love. It seems small. Powerless, even. But it sidesteps the usual weapons of anger and pride and instead sets off an avalanche of mercy.
Love is God’s revolution. Not explosive, but enduring. Not grand gestures, but quiet ones. Unspectacular, yet divine.
“Do not be overcome,” Paul says. And when you feel like giving up—when your heart says, “Enough already”—that’s the moment heaven leans close.
That's when love becomes a kind of worship.
Love like that doesn't just soften the other person. Sometimes, it softens us. It rewires our hearts to beat like Christ’s.
Even when the door slams. Even when the silence lingers.
It’s not about being walked over—it’s about walking with Jesus.
So yes, it’s hard. But maybe that’s where God does His best work—right in the tender, trembling place where you choose to love anyway.
And maybe, just maybe, someone will walk through the door again one day.
That’s what Jesus taught about difficult people.
She slammed the front door hard enough to rattle the windows. Again.
Jamie stood frozen in the hallway, casserole dish in hand, watching his sister’s retreating silhouette disappear down the driveway. She hadn’t even stayed for dinner. Just a few harsh words, a sigh, and then the storm.
It wasn’t the first time. Family gatherings had turned into battlegrounds ever since their mother died. Words carried old wounds. And Jamie—he tried to keep the peace. He prayed for her. He texted her kind things even when she lashed out. But today?
Today he wanted to let go. To let her go.
That’s when the whisper came—one that sounded suspiciously unlike his own: “Love your enemies. Do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you” (Luke 6:27-28).
It doesn't get more direct than that, does it?
Jesus didn’t say love the easy ones. He didn’t say love the ones who love you back. He simply said: love. Do good. Bless. Pray.
Even when the casserole grows cold and your heart aches from trying again.
What kind of love asks us to bless someone who makes us feel small? Who ignores every effort? Who wounds and walks away?
The kind of love Jesus lived.
On His way to the cross, He saw faces that spat, fists that struck, voices that screamed for His death. Yet He stood there—silent, battered, unwavering. As the nails went in, the first words from His mouth weren’t curses. They were prayers.
“Father, forgive them…”
Maybe you’ve felt that too. That ache of loving someone who makes it hard. Maybe it’s your spouse, whose silence speaks louder than words. A parent you can’t forgive. A friend who won’t return kindness.
You’re not alone in that fight.
Romans 12 offers a strange kind of power. “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone... Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good” (Romans 12:18, 21).
Notice how Paul doesn’t promise that it will always be possible. He just says, “as far as it depends on you.”
That’s the freedom in forgiveness. You’re not responsible for their response—you’re only called to reflect Christ.
And Christ didn’t cave to evil. He conquered it with love.
We think love should feel good. But sometimes real love feels like bending low. Washing the feet of someone who has betrayed you. Cooking a meal for someone you'll never impress. Answering tension with grace. That’s what Jesus did.
And it changes us.
I think of Jamie, standing there with his mother’s Sunday casserole cradled in his hands like an offering. The scent of rosemary and roast shouting kindness into an empty hallway. He could’ve cursed. Turned off the porch light. But instead, he texted her again.
“I love you, sis. There’s a plate here for you.”
She didn’t answer—not that night. Maybe she wouldn’t. But maybe the message pushed through the thorns. Maybe light, even flickering, still finds cracks in the dark.
That’s the thing about Christlike love. It seems small. Powerless, even. But it sidesteps the usual weapons of anger and pride and instead sets off an avalanche of mercy.
Love is God’s revolution. Not explosive, but enduring. Not grand gestures, but quiet ones. Unspectacular, yet divine.
“Do not be overcome,” Paul says. And when you feel like giving up—when your heart says, “Enough already”—that’s the moment heaven leans close.
That's when love becomes a kind of worship.
Love like that doesn't just soften the other person. Sometimes, it softens us. It rewires our hearts to beat like Christ’s.
Even when the door slams. Even when the silence lingers.
It’s not about being walked over—it’s about walking with Jesus.
So yes, it’s hard. But maybe that’s where God does His best work—right in the tender, trembling place where you choose to love anyway.
And maybe, just maybe, someone will walk through the door again one day.
That’s what Jesus taught about difficult people.
