Forgiving When It Feels Impossible
Rabbi Meyer Laniado
I officiated a small, graveside funeral for a family that was, like many families we know, complicated and in conflict. The brother and sister had not spoken in decades, and their children—first cousins—had never even met.
As is all too common in many families, this family had complications around divorce, finances, illness, and all the issues that make life complex and challenging, and create tensions and disputes. The weight of these tribulations drove this family apart.
The tensions were not just between siblings. There were also deep, unresolved feelings towards their mother, whom we were burying that day. Standing beside the freshly dug grave, their chances for reparations with their mother gone, I hoped for them to have a second chance. For them to be able to speak to one another, despite the pain. To address their issues with their mother, as well as their predicament as siblings.
That is why I turned to the family as they stood in a semicircle, facing me with the grave to my left, and said: “I know life is complicated, and emotions are raw. This may not be the right time for you, but I want to offer you the chance to ask for forgiveness and to offer forgiveness. Not just for the other, but for yourself—to let go of the pain that you have been holding onto. You may not be ready yet, and that is okay, but I want to give you the space in case you are. And so, I am going to step back, and if you are ready, take a step forward and offer forgiveness.”
I stepped back. A full minute passed—thick, tense silence hung between us. Then, slowly, the sister-in-law stepped forward. She looked at the grave and said: “Mom, I forgive you,” and she stepped back.
As I was about to close the service, the brother stepped forward. He forgave his mother at the grave, and then, after a brief pause, he turned to his sister. Looking her in the eyes, he said: “Even with all that we have been through, I want you to know–I am here for you.” And then, he stepped back.
At the time, the sister had no reaction at all–zero–and I had no idea whether she forgave him, how she understood him, or whether there would be reconciliation. All I knew at the time was that it was not the right moment to ask.
Months later, I checked in with the brother to see how he was doing, and in that conversation, I asked, “So, how is your sister doing?” He said: “Rabbi, you wouldn’t believe this; my sister was just by us for Rosh Hashanah, and our kids are taking each other out for dinner.”
I keep coming back to this story, reflecting on it again and again. For one, the brother’s bold move. I mean, I did the easy task of putting it on the table, but this individual’s capability of stepping forward, and not only letting go of all the pain of three decades, but saying, “I am here for you,” despite everything that has happened—that to me is remarkable.
To me, that is ‘radical unilateral forgiveness’—the capacity to show up for one another despite everything. Not because we forget, not because it didn’t hurt, not because we were wrong, but because, in the end, it isn’t important to be right. What’s more important is that we have the relationship.
The ability to forgive is at the heart of Yom Kippur. It’s not only about seeking G-d’s forgiveness, it is also about realizing the profound value of forgiveness in our human relationships. You can’t truly ask for forgiveness unless you believe that forgiveness is something worthy, something transformative.
I share this story because it is not only about forgiveness in general. It is about forgiving our family. The people closest to us are often the ones we find it most difficult to forgive—and yet, they’re the ones we need to forgive the most.
That is Yeshayahu’s message in the Yom Kippur Haftarah (Yeshayahu 57:14-21, 58:1-14). After reminding us that G-d demands more than fasting alone—that He wants us moved to action, to feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, clothe the naked—Yeshayahu closes poignantly: ‘uMibesarekha lo tita’lam’, ‘And your own flesh, do not ignore (Isaiah 58:7)
Does Yeshayahu actually have to remind us not to turn away from our own family?! To take care of them, too? Yes! Because sometimes, it’s easier to show compassion to strangers than to those closest to us.
Why? Because the irony is that the closer we are to a person, the more we know their story—every mistake, every flaw, every time they hurt us. We carry grudges and the weight of years of disappointment and hurt. We hold on to pain that has built up over the years—sometimes justified, sometimes not. We tell ourselves, ‘They should have done better, made different choices, taken responsibility.’ And we may be right, but being right is not the point.
And that is why Yeshayahu emphasizes: “Do not turn away from your own flesh!” We must care for those closest to us, even though it is so much harder! And it is not just about physical help. It’s being there emotionally, too, as the brother was.
Unfortunately, our tendency is often to turn away in anger or hurt, to justify not helping because we know the other’s faults so well. But Yeshayahu reminds us: this is where our responsibility lies—to step forward, to forgive, and to work on healing those deep fractures within our families.
As we enter the High Holidays, we are not asked only to seek forgiveness from G-d. We are asked to look hard at our broken relationships—the ones that feel too painful or too complicated to face.
It takes real courage to take that first step, as the brother did, to reach out without knowing what will come next. We may tell ourselves they hurt us, that they should come to us first. But holding back is not protecting us—it’s keeping us stuck. It’s stopping us from rebuilding the relationships that could still be saved. It’s waiting until a headstone stares us in the face, a silent reminder that time waits for no one.
Maybe this High Holiday season is not about resolving everything. Maybe it’s about finding the courage to open that door—to extend your hand, to step forward, even if you don’t know what will come next. And maybe next year, you’ll smile and tell me: ‘Rabbi, you wouldn’t believe it—they came over for Rosh Hashanah dinner.”
Rabbi Meyer Laniado is an associate rabbi at Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun and leads its Sephardic community on New York City’s Upper East Side. He teaches at Ramaz and is a growing voice in the broader conversation on Sephardic history, ideas, and culture, having shared perspectives at UJA, the Maimonides Fund, and the Bronfman Fellowship.
