Sisters Before Misters

A Reflection for Thursday, March 12 by Leana Lopez

Lectionary reading for 03/12/2026: Psalm 23; 1 Samuel 15:10-21; Ephesians 4:25-32

Selected passage for reflection: Ephesians 4:25-32

Read

Ephesians 4:25-32 (NIV)

Therefore, each of you must put off falsehood and speak truthfully to your neighbor, for we are all members of one body. "In your anger do not sin": Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry, and do not give the devil a foothold. Anyone who has been stealing must steal no longer, but must work, doing something useful with their own hands, that they may have something to share with those in need. Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen. And do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, with whom you were sealed for the day of redemption. Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.

Reflect

There's a kind of anger that doesn't announce itself. It doesn't raise its voice or slam doors. It shows up quietly — in the way you answer someone's question with a little less warmth than usual, in the way you "forget" to return a call, in the way you smile while saying something that was never quite meant as a kindness. That's the anger this passage has been speaking to me about lately. Not the big, dramatic kind — the kind we can easily name — but the anger that lives in the margins of our daily interactions, the kind we rarely admit to ourselves that it is even there.

In college, I lived with my best friend, and we did everything together until one day when she showed up with a boy. And just like that, I was no longer the priority. It's an age-old story that I'm sure many can relate to. You have this friend, and you swear allegiance to them. They become your ride or die. You proclaim “Sisters before misters!” until one of you goes and gets a boyfriend. She just simply wasn't around. And when she was, I felt unseen, dismissed, like my needs simply didn't register on her radar. 

I never said anything directly. I told myself I was happy for her. And when she was around, I was just tired. Just busy. Just being realistic about who they were and what they could do. But if I'm honest, I had quietly made a decision about them. I started responding to their texts a little slower. I stopped sharing the things that actually mattered to me. When they asked how I was doing, I said "fine" — and meant it as a wall, not an answer. I was still physically showing up. I was still being kind in all the technical ways. But I had emotionally checked out, and I was using my composed exterior as a kind of punishment I didn't have to own. I wasn't yelling — I was disappearing. Then one day, my friend left a note on my pillow with the lyrics of “Be Here Now” by Mason Jennings. The lyrics were asking me to come back, to be present and real with her. That slow, deliberate withdrawal from my friend was its own kind of falsehood. Paul's words cut right through me: put off falsehood and speak truthfully to your neighbor. I had been lying — not with my words, but with my lack of presence. 

In my work as a therapist and grief counselor, I see this pattern constantly. So much of what brings people to my office isn't grief they can name easily — it's anger they've never once called anger. It's the mother who says she's "just exhausted" but hasn't let anyone be truly close to her in years. It's the adult child who insists they're "over" the parent who left, but can't sustain any relationship without eventually sabotaging it. Grief and anger can sometimes share the same house. And when we refuse to name the anger, it doesn't leave — it just changes clothes. It becomes distance, sarcasm, perfectionism, or that particular coldness that masquerades as strength.

Paul doesn't tell us not to feel anger. He says, "In your anger, do not sin." The feeling isn't the problem. The hiding is. The festering is. The letting it quietly rot into bitterness while we tell everyone — and ourselves — that everything is fine. That's the foothold the enemy gets: not in the honest moment of anger, but in the long, unexamined silence that follows it. The path toward being people who build others up begins with the courage to tell the truth about what is happening inside us.

The Lyrics to Be Here Now, by Mason Jennings 

“Be here now, no other place to be

Or just sit there dreaming of how life would be

If we were somewhere better

Somewhere far away from all all worries

Well, here we are, You are the love of my life

Be here now, no other place to be

All the doubts that linger, just set them free

And let good things happen

And let the future come into each moment

Like a rising sun

You are the love of my life, You are the love of my life, Yeah, you know you are

Sun comes up and we start again, Sun comes up and we start again

And it's all new today

All we have to say

Is be here now

Be here now, no other place to be

This whole world keeps changing, come change with me

Everything that's happened, all that's yet to come

Is here inside this moment, it's the only one

You are the love of my life, You are the love of my life, Yeah, you know you are

Sun comes up and we start again, Sun comes up and we start again

It's all new today

All we have to say

Is be here now”

Respond 

Take a moment today to sit honestly with yourself and ask: Is there an anger I have been unwilling to name? You don't have to resolve it— you just have to be willing to call it what it is.

Rest

Lord God, you know what lives beneath the surface of us — every hurt we've quietly swallowed, every bitterness we've dressed up as something else. Give us the courage to be honest with you, with ourselves, and with one another. Teach us to speak truth in love, to let go before the sun goes down, and to receive the same grace we are called to extend. Amen

About the Author

As a nonprofit and healthcare leader, I’ve dedicated my career to transforming behavioral health systems and expanding access to quality care. My work centers on designing compassionate, innovative solutions that better serve vulnerable populations and drive meaningful change across clinical and community settings. As the Owner & CEO of Flex Therapy, I focus on developing and consulting on collaborative, data‑driven models that improve outcomes for high‑risk communities. I work closely with stakeholders to build culturally responsive approaches that strengthen care delivery.

I’m also passionate about the power of creativity—through art, writing, and innovative problem‑solving—to inspire growth, enhance well‑being, and spark meaningful transformation.