Forgive Them, Father, For They Know Not What They Do

Forgive Them, Father, For They Know Not What They Do

It’s been 11 months since my world went into a full tailspin.
11 months of brokenness and hope.
11 months of hurt and healing.

To protect myself, my children, and even my ex, the details are hidden.
I haven’t told my side to many, and I don’t feel the need to.
It’s too much to carry, let alone explain. I’m exhausted.
And the truth is, I don’t owe anyone my story.

But silence comes with a cost.

When you don’t speak, others fill in the gaps.
With assumptions. With judgment. With conclusions drawn from fragments.

There has been loss.
There have been misunderstandings.
There have been wounds, some deeper than I expected to survive.
I lost my belongings, my home, most of my family, and my church community at large.

In the middle of it, there were moments that could have hardened me.

At some of my most vulnerable points, there were people who were meant to help, people in positions of guidance, of authority, and of care who instead caused more pain. 
My pain has also been a signal that it's open season on Tamara for those who have issues with my accomplishments. Tamara is wounded. Go in for the kill. "Fire away".

I've been told a lot of things - that this was my punishment from God for being a bodybuilder. That I've been isolated and deserve to be on account of it.
I've been told I am "disgusting".
I've had an Elder in my church yell at me in anger to the point that others in the room told me to leave for my own mental safety. (I am grateful for those that protected me)
I could go on with examples...

However, while all of this was unfolding, I noticed something unexpected within me.

Even as my body felt like it was shutting down, there were words rising up, steady, clear, and persistent.

Two thoughts, in particular, kept repeating themselves.
And even now, they continue to surface whenever I face moments like this.

1. "This really isn't about me."

What I see in the reactions are pain.
Unprocessed trauma.
Projection.

And even though what they say or do it isn’t kind, even though it's intense, something in me never rises up in anger.

Instead, there is always a quiet thought:

2. "They don't even know what they're doing. They can't even understand my trauma because they don't even understand their own."

“Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.”

---

I’ve come back to that again and again.

When people have spoken about me publicly in ways that don’t reflect who I am.
When I’ve been called things that cut deeply.
When assumptions have been made about my life, my choices—even being told I’m being punished for who I am.

And still, I find myself returning to the same place:

They don’t understand.
They don’t know what to do.
They don’t see clearly.

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“Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.” - Luke 23:34

Spoken by Jesus while He is being crucified.

Jesus was being abused—actively, brutally, relentlessly.
He was in torturous pain, physically and spiritually.
And in that very moment, as it was happening, He said:
“Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.”

They weren’t sorry.
They weren’t reflecting.
They weren’t asking for forgiveness.

They were actively harming Him.

And He was already asking God to forgive them.

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That kind of forgiveness is not natural.
It doesn’t come from willpower.
It doesn’t come from pretending something didn’t hurt.

It comes from seeing beyond the moment.

Jesus saw beyond the violence to the blindness behind it.
Beyond the cruelty to the brokenness beneath it.

And I’ve started to see glimpses of that in my own life. I'm not saying I'm good at it, or that I'm a saint.
I don't even know why it comes up into my head. It's not my own nature to think this way.

People act from places they don’t understand.
From wounds they haven’t faced.
From pain they haven’t healed.

That doesn’t make it okay.

But it changes how I hold it.

That doesn’t mean this has been easy.

There are people I still struggle to forgive.
There are moments I revisit.
There is grief, so much grief, in the loss of people, community - the the boundaries I've had to create to keep myself safe .

I have hurt in me.

But I don’t carry anger the way I used to. And I recognize that as grace.

I also know this:

I have been the one who didn’t understand.

I have said things, done things, responded from places in me that weren’t whole.
Moments where, if I’m honest, I didn’t know what I was doing either.

And just as I need grace there, I have been trying to give it.

So this is where I’ve landed:

I’m not telling my story to defend myself.
I’m not fighting back against every word spoken.
I’m not trying to correct every misunderstanding.

Instead, I return here:

“Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.”

Again and again.
When I hear things.
When I feel the weight of loss.

Forgiveness like this is not approval.

It’s not saying the hurt didn’t matter.
It’s not allowing continued harm.

It’s choosing not to carry what will poison you if you hold onto it.

It’s placing it where it belongs—with God.

And maybe that’s the invitation in all of this:

When someone hurts you—deeply, unfairly, repeatedly—
before anything else, bring it to God like this:

Forgive them, Father.
They don’t even know what they’re doing.
And help me not to carry this in a way that changes who I am.

Because even on the cross—
before repentance, before change, before understanding—

Jesus chose forgiveness.

And somehow, in choosing that,
there is a freedom that nothing else can give.