DISCLAIMER: This post is not written to condone or encourage anyone to stay in an abusive relationship. Abuse is never God’s will, and staying in danger is not noble or biblical. If you are in an unsafe and abusive marriage, I urge you—get help. Talk to someone you trust, reach out for support, and do what you have to do to be safe. This post is a personal reflection on the battles and victory of forgiveness in the context of a non-abusive but painfully human marriage.

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Let’s not romanticize it.

Marriage isn’t always candlelight and connection. Sometimes, it’s war. Not against each other—but against yourself. Against your pride. Against the part of you that wants to be right more than you want to be holy. Against the voice that whispers, “They don’t deserve your grace today.”

There’s nothing cute about swallowing pride. There’s nothing poetic about forgiving someone who shredded your heart, or humbling yourself when everything inside you is burning. Compassion? Kindness? Patience? These aren’t pastel-colored Sunday school words when you’re standing knee-deep in betrayal, grief, or rage. No. These are war cries—bloody, soul-wrenching, bone-breaking commands that rip you away from your flesh and pin you to the Cross.

Colossians 3:12-15 is not a cozy call to good behavior. It’s a demand. A divine dare. A summons to walk out a gospel that costs you everything. It is a survival guide for when the covenant feels like a crucifixion.

You want to be God’s chosen? Set apart? Sanctified? Then you’ll have to bleed for it.

“Put on a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience…”
You know when that’s hardest? Not when you are newlyweds whispering dreams into each other’s ears—but when you’re sitting in silence after a brutal fight, choking on words you can’t take back. When you’re picking up the emotional wreckage of another misunderstanding, another moment where your love fell short.

It’s when your spouse has hurt you—not out of abuse, but out of their own brokenness, their own baggage, their own flesh—and everything in you wants to shut down. That’s where this verse either lives or dies.

You think that’s easy? Try it when your tears are hot with betrayal. Try it when your soul is throbbing and you’re gasping for air in a conversation where they won’t even acknowledge your hurt. Try it when you want to slam the door, when your fists are clenched, when every nerve in your body is screaming, “They don’t deserve it!”

And they don’t.
But neither did I. Neither did any of us.

Because compassion when someone’s lied about you isn’t soft—it’s steel.
Because kindness when someone has ignored your pain isn’t weakness—it’s warfare.
Because humility when everything inside you screams to defend yourself isn’t denial—it’s death. Death to ego. Death to vengeance. Death to that voice that says, “But I was right!”

Bearing with one another graciously doesn’t mean stuffing down pain. It means embracing it, feeling it fully, and still choosing to show up in love. It means forgiving—not because they apologized, not because they changed, but because Jesus forgave you when you didn’t deserve it either.

And let me be honest—it hurts.

Forgiveness in marriage doesn’t feel fair. It feels like you’re laying your heart on the altar again while your pride kicks and screams. It feels like saying “I forgive you” with tears streaming down your face because your soul is still bruised from the last blow. It feels like choosing to stay soft when everything in you is going hard.

But that’s what real love looks like.

Not easy love.
Not Hollywood love.
This is Cross-bearing love.

Paul says, “Wrap yourselves in unselfish love, which is the perfect bond of unity…” That’s not poetic fluff. That’s a divine command that requires dying to the instinct to isolate, retaliate, or self-protect. And don’t get it twisted—unity doesn’t mean pretending everything’s okay. It means choosing connection while dealing with the mess. It means sitting in the ashes of disappointment and still reaching for their hand.

This verse about unselfish love smites my heart every time I read it. Because when everything within me is crushed and doesn’t want to get up, love compels me to drag my old proud and heavy flesh across the dirt and come face to face with the suffering that my Savior endured for my stubborn and unwilling flesh. But all in all, despite this broken and rebellious flesh, my spirit is willing. Willing to crucify it.

This isn’t just a command to act nice. This is a call to war against self-preservation. It’s saying, “I will not let my pain become my god. I will not let bitterness be my covering. I will clothe myself in love, even if I have to drag my trembling body into it.”

Marriage will push you to your limit. It will expose the ugliest parts of you. But it can also sanctify you, deeply, painfully, beautifully—if you let it.

Then Paul drops this grenade in verse 15: “Let the peace of Christ be the controlling factor in your hearts.” That means peace doesn’t come after you’ve vindicated yourself. It comes when you lay down the sword. When you surrender the right to be angry. When you choose Jesus over man-made justice—and trust Him to be the vindication you can’t be.

It’s not weakness.
It’s not silence.
It’s the most defiant, powerful act of faith you’ll ever make.

So, no—this isn’t about being a doormat. This is about being a disciple.
And discipleship costs everything.

So forgive with grit. Love with fire in your eyes. Hold on with blood on your hands and the cross in view. Do it when it makes you feel like you’re dying—because you are. You’re dying to yourself.

Because in the death of your pride, something sacred comes alive: the kind of love that no man (not even you) can set asunder. In that surrender, you will find a power hell can’t counterfeit: the resurrection of Christ in your broken places.

Wrap yourself in that kind of love.

Bleed for it.
Rise for it.
And walk it out—day by day, death by death, vow by vow.

-L. Abigail Bradeen

If you find yourself struggling in your marriage, I want to encourage you from the deepest struggles we face—that you are not alone. You’re not crazy for finding it hard. You are not the only one who sometimes wrestles with forgiveness. You’re human. And you’re loved.

Let’s pray and war together for His strength in our weakness. What the Bible says about love will guide your heart, ground your emotions, and strengthen your resolve. Even when everything feels like it’s falling apart—He is holding it together.

A Prayer for the Ones Who Are Fighting to Stay

Father,
I’m tired.
My flesh is yelling “I don’t want to forgive again.” I don’t want to keep showing up when it feels like my love is met with silence, defensiveness, or distance. My heart is sore. My pride is loud. My flesh wants to run, or shut down, or lash out.

But You didn’t quit on me.
You loved me through every season of rebellion, through every hard-hearted moment. You washed my feet knowing I would betray You with my choices. You stayed. You bled. You forgave.

So help me, Jesus.
Help me crucify the part of me that demands justice over mercy.
Help me to soften where I’ve gone hard.
Help me to listen without guarding.
Help me to speak without wounding.
Help me to love without keeping score.

This marriage is Yours. This covenant is holy.
And I don’t have the strength—but You do.
Give me the courage to stay when it’s easier to leave.
Give me wisdom to know when to speak and when to simply hold the line in love.
Heal what I can’t fix. Restore what we’ve broken.
Make this house a place where grace has the final word.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.