never insulted, never offended

Karen swept into our neighborhood like a force of nature—confident, energetic, and radiating faith. With several little boys the same ages as mine, we quickly became friends.

One day, when Gabe was a newborn, I apologized to Karen for something thoughtless I’d said.

“I’m so sorry—I would never want to offend you,” I pleaded.

Karen waved it off with a laugh. “You could never offend me! I never take offense. I don’t even remember this seemingly terrible thing you said.”

What I remember most from that moment was an overwhelming rush of relief—my stupidity hadn’t ruined our friendship. But then I was curious. “You’re never offended? How?”

“A few years ago, little things and even strangers irritated me all the time.” Karen confided, “One day, I was reading that verse in Corinthians, you know the one, and I decided I wanted to be more charitable. I wanted to stop wasting time feeling insulted.”

She paused to pick up a blanket I’d dropped, then continued, “If you think about it, most people aren’t trying to offend you—they’re just not thinking. And if someone is trying to hurt you, they have other problems.”

I kept thinking about what she’d said long after Karen went home. I knew precisely the verse she meant—one of the most remarkable passages in scripture:

“Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked…” (1 Corinthians 13:4-5).

What if I decided to let nothing provoke me? How different would my life be if I never felt slighted or affronted? What if I gave people the benefit of the doubt? What if I assumed the best and forgave quickly? I thought of these words from Epictetus, “Any person capable of angering you becomes your master; they can anger you only when you permit yourself to be disturbed by them.” How often did I let someone become my master because of my anger towards them?

After that conversation, my friendship with Karen grew stronger because I felt completely safe with her. She believed in me and constantly encouraged me. She often gave me advice on parenting and marriage—and I listened because I knew she had my best interests at heart.

I’ve thought about Karen’s remarkable ability to remain untroubled many times over the last twenty-three years.

If you think about it, taking offense is often a sign of insecurity or misplaced pride. Reality TV practically runs on the fuel of feeling slighted, insulted, or “disrespected” over the mildest offense. Social media isn’t much better—so much of it is just performative outrage, people competing to see who can be the most aggrieved. We all know how exhausting it is to spend time with someone who is constantly irritated.

At our house, we often talk about Hanlon’s Razor: “Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity.” We are all stupid at times. Most people aren’t trying to hurt you—they’re just distracted, overwhelmed, or unaware. If we could see into each other’s hearts and understand the burdens we’re carrying, we’d treat each other with much more kindness, patience, and care.

I wish I could say I’ve mastered Karen’s example, but I’m still working on it. I’m pretty good at brushing off offenses from strangers—bad drivers, rude customers, online trolls. But when it comes to family and close friends? That’s where I struggle.

Why? Why is it so easy to ignore a rude gesture on the freeway but hard to accept a kindly worded criticism (or even a compliment) from someone who loves me? Maybe because I expect my loved ones to know me better—to understand my heart and intentions.

But that’s just my pride whispering lies. I need to extend more grace, let go of my ego, and take myself less seriously. I need to listen to Elder David A. Bednar’s words: “When we believe or say we have been offended, we usually mean we feel insulted, mistreated, snubbed, or disrespected. But to be offended is a choice we make; it is not a condition inflicted or imposed upon us by someone or something else.”

One caveat: choosing not to take offense doesn’t mean tolerating mistreatment. Protecting ourselves from those who intentionally cause harm is not a lack of Christian charity—it’s wisdom. Too often, we assume that being Christian means passively enduring abuse, but the New Testament tells a different story. Jesus set clear boundaries. When the people of Nazareth tried to kill him, he never returned. When Peter spoke out of line, Jesus corrected him. When Herod executed John the Baptist, Jesus refused to acknowledge him. Christ showed love, but he didn’t grant endless access to those who sought to harm him. Being Christian doesn’t mean allowing others to harm us—it simply means we don’t dwell on the hurt. We lay our pain on the altar of God, forgive, and move forward in joy.

Joy is the natural consequence of giving up offense. Karen danced through life with so much joy that she left everyone she met a little happier and more hopeful.

We lost Karen to pancreatic cancer last year—a bright light gone too soon at 64. In honor of Karen—and the remarkable family she left behind—I’m committing to being a little more like her—setting aside my pride, giving people the benefit of the doubt, and sharing the true love of Christ.