I recently reached out to someone I’ve been at odds with for a few years. Let’s call her Shannon.
From my side, I wasn’t even sure how the conflict had started. But I could tell—through body language, distance, and silence—that something was broken. And after years of letting that distance stretch, I finally reached out to ask if she’d be willing to meet. No expectations, just a hope for clarity, maybe even healing.
She responded.
But not how I had hoped.
Her reply was polite but firm: she had no interest in meeting, no interest in revisiting the past, and no hope for a future relationship between us. She shared some reasons why, things she believed about my character, my work, even how I’ve parented. She said she had moved on—and asked that I respect her boundary.
To be honest, I was stunned. I didn’t see it coming with that level of finality or judgment. I cried. I sat with the words for a while. I even questioned if I had done the right thing by reaching out.
But then something surprising happened: peace. Not because the situation was resolved, but because I had done the thing I felt God nudging me to do—extend an invitation. Not for self-defense, not for control, but for reconciliation. And when she said no, I was free to let go, knowing that love was still possible even when restoration wasn’t.
It reminded me of Paul’s words in Romans 12:18:
“If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”
That little phrase—as far as it depends on you—is such a gift. It acknowledges that peace requires two willing hearts. But it also gives us a responsibility: to do what we can. Not perfectly, not performatively, but humbly and sincerely.
Sometimes, peace looks like a beautiful reunion and shared understanding.
Sometimes, peace is a boundary, a closed door, and a goodbye that you never wanted—but you respect it anyway.
And still, God meets us there.
Amy Griffin
STAR 101.5 Staff
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