Monthly Archives: April 2013

A Forgiving Heart

Posted on by

Forgiveness is one of the most difficult yet powerful choices we can make. It asks us to let go of hurt, pride, and the desire for revenge—to respond with kindness where we’ve been wronged, and to move forward without resentment. That kind of grace doesn’t come easily. It requires strength, humility, and often, deep faith.

As I reflected on forgiveness, I turned to one of my greatest sources of inspiration—the Bible. Time and again, Scripture presents extraordinary examples of individuals who chose forgiveness, even in the face of betrayal, injustice, and suffering.

One story that stands out is that of David.

Though anointed by God, David spent years fleeing for his life from King Saul, who was jealous and intent on killing him. David had more than one opportunity to take revenge, yet he chose restraint. In 1 Samuel 26, we see David and Abishai come upon Saul asleep in his camp. Abishai urges David to kill him, but David refuses, saying, “Do not destroy him, for who can put out his hand against the Lord’s anointed and be guiltless?” (1 Samuel 26:9). Instead of vengeance, David chose honor and trust in God’s justice.

Then there’s Stephen.

As he preached with wisdom and power, he faced false accusations, was seized, and eventually stoned to death. Yet, as he was dying, his final words were, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them” (Acts 7:60). Even as stones rained down upon him, Stephen extended forgiveness to those who took his life.

And, of course, there is Jesus.

As He hung on the cross, suffering a brutal and unjust death, He looked at those who mocked and crucified Him and said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). This is the ultimate example of mercy and love in the face of cruelty.

These stories speak deeply to the heart, especially in a world filled with injustice. We see so much pain today—racism, discrimination, lies, abuse of power, violence, and hatred. Watching the news can be overwhelming. It’s easy to feel helpless or angry in the face of so much wrong.

Paul, in his letter to Timothy, warned of such times:
“In the last days there will come times of difficulty. For people will be lovers of self, lovers of money, proud, arrogant, abusive… heartless, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not loving good… having the appearance of godliness, but denying its power” (2 Timothy 3:1-5).

Still, we’re called to a higher standard.

So I ask:

  • Would I want to be treated with dignity, even when I fall short?
  • When someone hurts me, do I long for them to see the pain they caused and make it right?
  • How do I want others to respond to my needs and humanity?
  • Can I offer that same grace to others?

David, Stephen, and Jesus weren’t weak. Their forgiveness was an act of strength rooted in trust—trust that God sees, knows, and will judge with justice. When we choose to forgive, we’re not saying the wrong didn’t matter; we’re saying we believe in a God who will make all things right.

So if today, you were given the chance to avenge someone who deeply wronged you—would you choose forgiveness instead?

It’s not easy. But imagine how different the world would be if we all treated others the way we wish to be treated. Forgiveness is not forgetting—it’s faith in action.

“To describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power.” — Maya Angelou

Posted on by
“Behind all your stories is always your mother’s story, because hers is where yours begin.” — Mitch Albom

It’s hard for me to understand when people say they aren’t close to their parents or siblings. I know every family is different—and sometimes painful distance is necessary. But I also know this: children never ask to be born, and too often they pay the price for a broken foundation they didn’t break.

In Rwanda, family isn’t just important—it’s sacred. You’re expected to stay connected not just to your parents and siblings, but to your entire extended family. That’s the world I was born into, and the world my mother, Colette, exemplified.

She was everything a mother could be: selfless, present, unwavering. As the eldest girl in a family of six, I should’ve seen her worries—but I didn’t. She shielded us from life’s hardest parts. If she and my father argued, we never heard it. If money was tight, we never felt it. She made our world feel like paradise.

She didn’t say “I love you” with words—we didn’t do that in our culture—but we knew. Through her care, her sacrifices, the small rewards when we succeeded. Even as we had house help, she ensured we learned to contribute, to grow.

My dearest Mom, the source of my inspiration!

When the genocide against the Tutsi began on April 7, April 1994, her daily prayer was heartbreaking: that if death was coming, it would come quickly—and take us all together. She didn’t believe any of us could survive alone. Seventeen days later, she was gone

Mama, four of us survived. And we didn’t just make it—we rose. The God you taught us to trust has carried us every step of the way. We miss you more than words can ever say, but we know you’re home with Him now. I promise—we will finish what you started!

One story I will never forget is the dream one aunt had in 1993, a year before the genocide. In that dream, she saw a terrible tragedy coming to Rwanda—people being killed, chaos everywhere. As she faced death in the dream, she cried out in prayer that my mother would survive. She believed and was certain that, if my mother lived, she would raise her children as her own.

That was the kind of woman my mom was—so full of love, even those outside our immediate family entrusted her with their children in their final thoughts. She was selfless in the deepest sense, giving her all for her family and others, never seeking recognition. Even as the genocide began, her final prayer wasn’t for escape—it was for her family to die together, quickly and without pain. She couldn’t bear the thought of her children suffering or surviving alone.

That level of sacrifice, of love, lives in me every day. Her story didn’t end with her death. It continues through the lives of the children she raised, the values she instilled, and the legacy we carry forward.

After the genocide, I made a silent vow: I would never call anyone Mom again. The word felt sacred—untouchable. Hearing others speak of their mothers only deepened the ache inside me. I kept that promise for 14 years.

Then, in 2008, God surprised me with a miracle named Glori. We met at a mutual friend’s dinner in Rochester, New York, and from the beginning, there was something different—something gentle, yet strong. A few months later, she gave me a gift I never thought I’d receive again: the invitation to call her Mom.

For the first time since 1994, someone called me “daughter.” And in that moment, something long-buried within me softened.

Maman et moi. Mars 2014

With my mom in town on my birthday: March 2014 (Raleigh, NC)

Glori loves in the most practical, powerful ways—reminding me to eat, giving advice, printing directions even though I have GPS, flying in every year to celebrate my birthday. When I visit her, she plans my time down to the minute, knowing how much I love my sleep and how long it takes me to get ready. I eat like a child at her table, wrapped in warmth I thought I’d lost forever.

It’s uncanny how much we have in common—our laughter, our passions, even the way we do things. It feels as if God, in His mercy, wove pieces of Colette into Glori, so I would always feel my mother’s love—just in a new form.

I never imagined I’d say “Mom” again. Now I say it with joy, with gratitude, and with a heart full of reverence. Colette gave me life. Glori gave me healing. And through them both, God showed me the fullness of His love.

If your mom is still with you—hold her close. If she’s in heaven, speak her name. Write her story. Keep her legacy alive.

I am the daughter of two extraordinary women. And I am blessed beyond measure.