My dear friends,

I’ve been thinking lately about how much of our lives is shaped not by what happens to us—but by what we do with the wound it leaves behind.

I’ve been sitting with the book of Esther again, and I can’t shake how surprisingly relevant it feels. Who would have thought that two ancient men—Haman and King Ahasuerus—could hold up such a clear mirror to our own hearts?

You likely remember the story. Haman, a descendant of the Amalekites—longtime enemies of the Jews—had been elevated to a place of great honor. When Mordecai refused to bow to him, something deep and dark was stirred. His anger wasn’t just irritation—it was consuming. What should have remained a personal offense became a plan for the destruction of an entire people.

And then there is King Ahasuerus. In the middle of his lavish feasting, in a moment clouded by wine and pride, he summoned Queen Vashti to display her beauty. When she refused, he too “burned with anger.” What should have been handled privately became a public decree affecting the entire kingdom.

Two men. Two bruised egos. Two very revealing responses.

And if I’m honest, I see pieces of myself in both of them.

I know what it is to feel that sudden rise of emotion when I feel slighted or overlooked. As someone who tends to feel things deeply and express them quickly, I recognize how fast a small offense can grow into something much bigger inside my heart. Perhaps you know that feeling too? Maybe your response looks different—maybe you go quiet, or carry it silently, or rehearse it over and over—but the root is the same. Something in us rises up and says, “That wasn’t right.”

What strikes me most is how both Haman and Ahasuerus took something personal and made it public.

Haman couldn’t simply deal with Mordecai. Instead, he expanded the offense to include an entire nation. Ahasuerus couldn’t quietly resolve the situation with Vashti. Instead, he made a sweeping decree, as if her choice threatened the whole social order.

And I had to stop and ask myself—how often do I do this in smaller ways?

How often do I take a personal hurt and let it spill into conversations, coloring how I speak about someone? How often do I replay the story, subtly inviting others to agree with me? It feels so justified in the moment, doesn’t it? And yet, it can so quickly become something that spreads far beyond the original wound.

I’m learning—slowly—that while there is a place for wise counsel, there is also a sacred place where I must first take my hurt to the Lord alone. Not to build a case. Not to be validated. But to be healed.

Another thing I notice is how both men surrounded themselves with voices that reinforced their reactions. Ahasuerus turned to his advisors, and instead of calming the situation, they escalated it. Haman, in his own way, carefully framed his words to the king to gain approval for his plan.

Isn’t that something we can do so easily? We don’t always look for truth—we look for agreement. We look for someone who will say, “Yes, you’re right to feel that way.”

But I keep coming back to this gentle conviction: Jesus didn’t die for my excuses. He died to set me free from them.

There’s also the matter of proportion. Oh, how this one humbles me.

A single act of disrespect led Haman to seek genocide. A single act of refusal led Ahasuerus to issue a decree affecting an entire empire. It sounds extreme—and it is—but isn’t there a quieter version of that in us? When emotions take over, how quickly we can exaggerate, escalate, and react in ways that don’t match the moment.

How different things might be if we paused… if we waited… if we invited the Lord into that very first surge of emotion.

At the root of it all, I see pride. A deep attachment to honor, to being seen rightly, to not being diminished in the eyes of others.

And here is where the Lord has been gently reshaping my thinking.

What if my identity is not in how I am perceived, but in whose I am?

What if the people around me saw not a polished, always-right version of me, but a woman learning to depend on Jesus? What if they saw me stumble—but also saw Him lift me up? What if they saw weakness, but also the quiet strength that comes from surrender?

I’m beginning to think that might speak more powerfully than anything else.

Finally, both men used their power to regain control. Haman through manipulation and destruction. Ahasuerus through authority and decree.

And while I may not hold that kind of power, I do recognize the subtle ways I try to control my world—through worry, through over-concern, through wanting things to turn out a certain way. It often looks respectable on the outside, but underneath is a struggle to trust.

The truth is, dear friends, we are not so different from these men as we might like to think. The same human heart beats within us—the same tendencies, the same vulnerabilities.

But here is the hope that steadies me:

What begins as a wound does not have to end in destruction.

Where Haman and Ahasuerus allowed their wounded pride to harm others, we are invited to let our wounds draw us closer to Christ. We are given the freedom to forgive, to release, to respond differently.

We may never influence an empire—but we deeply influence the spaces we live in every day. A reaction can wound a marriage, a family, a friendship, a church. But a surrendered heart? That can bring healing just as far.

So I’ve been asking myself—and I’ll gently ask you too:

Where might a small offense be trying to grow into something larger in my heart?

And what would it look like to place it, fully and honestly, into the hands of Jesus?

He is more than able to take what the enemy intends for harm and transform it into something good—far beyond what we could ask or imagine.

And perhaps it begins right here—with a quiet surrender, a softened heart, and a willingness to release what we were never meant to carry.

“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” (Ephesians 4:32)

With love,