Three years ago, on the first day of school, I walked into an ambush. A group of families who opposed a decision I’d made had formed an alliance behind my back, and had arrived with a list of “solutions” that were, at best, rooted in bias and, at worst, actually illegal.
The bias they couldn’t see in themselves ran so deep that questioning my authority, second-guessing my decisions, and bulldozing what I’d built felt righteous to them. They thought they were the good guys.
Soon after, I had made my decision. I knew how to handle the situation. It was just a matter of determining how and when to move my strategy forward. But then I talked to my dad, who reminded me that the school itself was a ministry and encouraged me to pray before acting.
While I sought God, the crumbling started. The apologies came. The walk-backs came. They felt ashamed. They looked ridiculous. Everything fell exactly the way I said it would. I was vindicated. I had the last word and the last laugh, and I wanted to savor both. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to throw it in their faces.
Six days later, in a song, God ministered to my Spirit saying: “I always have the last word. And the last word is love.”
And in His annoyingly gentle way, He pressed further: You will always have the last word, because you will always win with me. But will your last word be love?
I wish I could tell you I answered that question once and moved on. But just last year, I stood through public shaming and character assault in a courtroom. And the emotional and psychological toll of being misunderstood, publicly, on the record, is its own kind of grief.
Everything in me wanted to yell from the rooftops: You’re the monster. My intentions are pure! And every single day, the same question rose up to meet me: You have the last word. Will it be love?
In John 20 and 21 our risen Savior returns to the place where he was crucified. Risen from the dead, fully vindicated, proven right about every single thing He’d said. Then He walks through a locked door into a room full of men who abandoned Him, and His first words are Peace be with you.
To Thomas, who demanded proof, He said: Come here. Touch the scars. And to Peter (who denied Him three times) after building a fire and cooking the man breakfast, He asks three times, Do you love me? One for every denial.
Jesus had every receipt. He had the ultimate last laugh, I mean He beat death. And the resurrected Jesus never once said “I told you so.”
He had the last word. And He made it love.
Sis, let’s tell the truth: some of us aren’t waiting on God’s justice. We’re waiting on front-row seats to somebody’s humiliation. We call it vindication. But it’s your ego wearing a church hat. Being right is not the same as being like Jesus. And watching them squirm or crash and burn was never the assignment.
You’re allowed to be angry. The anger isn’t the sin. God is not scandalized by your honest rage, and He doesn’t need you to pretend the wound isn’t real. Bring Him the fury and the receipts. I promise, He gets it.
When the moment comes carrying the apology you could reject, the group chat where you could gloat, the “I told you so” sitting loaded on your tongue, choose the last word of love. Not silence. Not fake sweetness. Love.
Love isn’t the consolation prize for giving up your victory lap. I know you don’t want to hear it but love is the victory. Because God is love. And He can’t lose.
I wonder…
- Where in your life are you savoring someone else’s crumbling more than you’re seeking God’s voice?
- What would “the last word is love” actually sound like, out loud, in that situation?
- What is your ego afraid you’ll lose if you don’t get the last laugh?
Affirmation
Love is not my consolation prize. Love is my power move.
I love you.
Coi Marie
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