“Then Peter came to Him and said, ‘Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? Up to seven times?’ Jesus said to him, ‘I do not say to you, up to seven times, but up to seventy times seven.’”
Matthew 18:21-22 (NKJV)
I have countless memories of being laughed at in school. From elementary school through grad school, my classmates found humor in my struggles. They chuckled at my stumbles in speech, my hesitation when called to the board, and my confusion during group projects. I would laugh too, pretending it didn’t hurt. But deep down, I felt the sting of every whisper.
No matter how much time passed, that feeling of failure seemed to follow me. To this very day.
Like so many neurodivergent professionals, I kept my disability hidden. I didn’t disclose it when I studied to become a teacher. No disclosure. No accommodations. Just silent determination and a lot of late nights trying to survive what everyone else seemed to breeze through.
Reading assignments were impossible. I skimmed headings and bullets, hoping I’d absorb enough to make sense of the class discussions. I ran out of time on nearly every test. I worked harder than most but always came up short. It took me an extra year to finish my program. When I finally crossed the finish line, I thought the hardest part was over.
But it wasn’t.
I had finished the coursework, but I wasn’t certified to teach.
Another dream delayed. Another unfinished chapter.
That’s when Mom stepped in—again.
She didn’t lecture me about responsibility or deadlines. She didn’t remind me of all the times I’d started something and didn’t finish. She simply looked at me with that calm, steady grace that only mothers seem to have and said, “Edie, let’s get this done.”
Then came her secret weapon—a mix of inspiration and good old-fashioned bribery.
“If you finish your certification forms,” she said, “I’ll pay your application fee.”
It was a small gesture, but to me, it was everything. Her words carried faith when mine had run out. Her encouragement was God’s whisper of forgiveness—seventy times seven. She had forgiven my missed opportunities, my insecurities, my moments of giving up.
And she reminded me, without ever saying it, that forgiveness isn’t just for others—it’s for ourselves too.
So I took her offer. I filled out the forms. I mailed them off with a prayer and a promise that this time, I would see it through.
Two months later, a white envelope arrived in the mail. My heart raced as I tore it open.
Inside, a simple letter read: “Congratulations. You are now certified to teach Mathematics and Special Education in the state of Maryland.”
I cried.
Not because of the achievement, but because of the grace that carried me there.
Looking back, I see Matthew 18:21–22 come alive through my mom’s example. Peter asked Jesus how many times he should forgive someone. Seven times seemed generous. But Jesus replied, “Seventy times seven.”
That’s how Mom loved me, without keeping count.
Every time I doubted myself, she lifted me up.
Every time I failed, she reminded me I was capable.
Every time I quit, she found a way to help me start again.
Her forgiveness wasn’t about excusing my mistakes. It was about seeing my worth beyond them.
Through her patience, I learned what divine forgiveness looks like in human form. It’s not grand or loud. It’s steady. Quiet. Persistent. The kind of love that doesn’t fade when you fall short.
Today, when I think of all the times I’ve needed to be forgiven—for my mistakes, my self-doubt, my unfinished beginnings—I hear Mom’s voice saying, “You’ve got this.”
And I imagine God smiling, too.
Forgiveness isn’t about how many times you’ve failed. It’s about how many times love calls you to try again.
Thank you, Lord, for forgiving me seventy times seven.
And thank you, Mom, for showing me what that looks like in real life.
🎵 Song by Tobe Nwigwe: “Lord Forgive Me” – Video Link
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