I was peacefully taking my evening stroll when I heard the birds’ sounds grow louder. Usually, I walk with one earbud in, so I pulled it out to see what was going on. It sounded as if the birds were having a full-blown conversation.

Then something strange happened.

A crow (or as we Jamaicans call it, a “black bird”) came straight at me.

“Haaaa!”

I screamed, convinced it had mistaken my head for a pecking board. By the time I gathered my thoughts, there it was again. So naturally, I grabbed a stick and decided somebody was getting hit that day, but it wasn’t going to be me!

Once I was safely out of harm’s way, I couldn’t stop wondering why this had happened.

A few years later, I stumbled upon a documentary about crows and discovered something fascinating. Crows have extraordinary memories. If someone mistreats or merely crosses them the wrong way, they can remember that person’s face for years. Not only that, but they teach their children, and even future generations, who their enemies are.

Imagine carrying a grudge so long that your grandchildren inherit it.

As I listened, I thought, Lord, that sounds a lot like us.

Many of us have become master sculptors of old hurts. Instead of releasing offenses, we carefully chisel them into monuments. Every betrayal. Every harsh word. Every disappointment. We carve them into stone and place them prominently in the gallery of our hearts.

Then we become tour guides.

“Over here is where they hurt me in 2018.”

“This piece was sculpted from that betrayal at work.”

“And if you’ll follow me to the next exhibit, you’ll see my collection of church hurts.”

Funny, but not funny.

Like crows, we often preserve what should have been released. Worse, we sometimes pass those offenses along to others. Families inherit feuds. Friendships are shaped by secondhand bitterness. Entire generations learn who to avoid because someone chose resentment over forgiveness.

What began as a wound becomes a sculpture.

What should have healed becomes a monument.

Yet God never called us to curate museums of pain.

Ephesians 4:31-32 reminds us:

“Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger… Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.”

Notice Paul says get rid of it.

Not display it.

Not polish it.

Not preserve it.

Get rid of it.

Forgiveness does not mean the hurt never happened. It means we stop giving it a place of honor in our hearts.

The enemy wants us to think like crows, remembering every offense and rehearsing every wound. Jesus calls us to something higher. He calls us to forgive, release, and make room for healing.

Perhaps today is the day to pick up a hammer, not to defend yourself from a crow, but to tear down a monument you’ve been maintaining for far too long.

Prayer

Father, search my heart and reveal any offense I have preserved instead of surrendered. Forgive me for the ways I have nurtured bitterness, replayed old hurts, or allowed past wounds to shape my present relationships. Give me the courage to forgive as You have forgiven me. Help me tear down every monument of resentment and replace it with grace, mercy, and love. Heal what still hurts and free me from carrying what You never intended me to keep. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. What offense have I turned into a monument that God is asking me to tear down?
2. Is there someone I need to forgive today so that pain does not become part of my legacy?