There was a night I'll never forget. I had just finished praying—no, more like sobbing into my pillow—telling God, "I'll never do it again." I meant it. I always meant it. But deep down, I was already afraid of failing again. And that fear wasn't about the act itself—it was about whether God would still want me after it.
That's what guilt does.
It doesn't just point out your sin.
It whispers, *"You are your sin."*
But *grace speaks louder.*
Grace doesn't deny the fall; it redeems it. It looks at the dirt on your hands and says, *"Come anyway."* It holds your trembling heart and reminds you: *"You are not your mistake. You are Mine."*
It took me months to accept that I wasn't disqualified. That God wasn't done with me. I kept showing up to church with a heavy heart, wondering if I even belonged. But you know what changed everything?
It was when I finally believed this one truth:
*Jesus didn't die for perfect people. He died for the broken, the ashamed, the secret strugglers.*
The kind of people who hide behind laughter.
The kind of people who cry after midnight.
The kind of people like me.
The kind of people like you.
And when guilt came running to remind me of what I did, grace stood taller and reminded me of who I am.
Forgiven.
Chosen.
Loved.
Whole.
I stopped running away and started running *to* Him. Because I realized—He never ran from me.