My little sister is beautiful. Her name is Melanie, but we've called her Mo since I was a baby and couldn't pronounce her name.
This does not come naturally for me, and sometimes it doesn't come at all. The grace and forgiveness I have in my heart is intentionally sought after, hard fought. I eek it out, pray for the constant drip drip drip of grace that will allow me to see past those things that hurt me, to help me erase the mental tally of ways someone has disappointed me. That's not easy to admit in writing, but it's the truth.
But Mo? Her grace abounds. She understands, she doesn't keep a tally. I think of this when I feel anger at an old wrong or irritation at someone's accidental display of thoughtlessness. It's okay, I remind myself, and I do my best to pour out grace.