God, it’s me again

One, two, three. The steps are getting closer, and I can feel it deep within me. I can feel it in my soul and in my bones, like something familiar slowly making its way back into my life.

Hey friend, I know this voice too well to pretend I do not recognize what is coming. I am trying my best to fight it, but somehow it feels like my body and mind stop working together. It feels like I am frozen while everything around me collapses. And suddenly, without even realizing how I got there, I am losing control again.

One, two, three. The voices are getting louder, and it feels like my mind is drowning in an ocean of things I truly believed I had already overcome. I thought those battles were behind me. I thought those chains had finally fallen off. I thought healing meant I would never struggle like this again.

But somehow my past found its way back into my present. Somehow the things I prayed would never touch me again are standing right in front of me, asking to be entertained one more time. And here I am, crawling back to the same things God once delivered me from.

Like a dog returning to its vomit, I go back to what once poisoned me, and maybe that is why Solomon called that person a fool. Because there is nothing intelligent about returning to the very thing that once broke you.

One, two, three. God, it is me again.

I wish I could come to You with stories about victory and growth, but today I only come with honesty. I am sorry. I am sorry that I failed You again. Sometimes it feels like the only thing I consistently succeed at these days is disappointing You.

And if I am being completely transparent, if I were You, I probably would have given up on me a long time ago.

This is not me trying to throw myself a pity party. I know Your grace is real. I know mercy exists. I know we all fall short and that Your love is not earned by perfection. I know all of those things in my head, but my heart is tired.

I am tired of going back to the shackles You already removed from my feet. I am tired of reopening wounds You already started healing. I am tired of standing in church singing about freedom while still secretly wrestling with the chains I thought were dead.

So here is my request.

If You are going to love me, then teach me how to stop running away from that love every time I make a mistake. Teach me how to stop believing that one failure can erase everything You have ever said about me.

If You are going to forgive me, then teach me how to stop digging up the things You already buried. Because somehow You move on from my sins faster than I do.

And if Your mercy is truly new every morning, then God, please help me survive the night. Because nights are hard. Nights are where the overthinking lives. Nights are where shame gets loud. Nights are where guilt convinces me that I am too far gone to be restored.

I do not want another temporary moment of conviction that disappears after a few days. I do not want another emotional altar call that never transforms my everyday life. I am tired of crying during worship services only to return to the same chains by Monday morning.

I want freedom that reaches deeper than my emotions. I want freedom that reaches my habits, my thoughts, my secret struggles, and the hidden version of me that nobody else sees.

After saying all of that, I whispered amen and started getting ready to leave.

But then I felt Him speak.

“No, wait. Do not leave just yet. It is My turn to talk now. Sit here and listen.”

So I stayed.

And in the silence where shame usually screams the loudest, His voice interrupted every hateful thought I had about myself.

“My child, you keep calling yourself a failure while I continue calling you Mine. You keep measuring your worth by how many times you fall, while I already settled your worth at the cross.

I never asked you to save yourself. I asked you to surrender to Me.

Yes, you fell again, but your struggle is not stronger than My grace. Your weakness does not cancel My love for you. And your worst moment is not powerful enough to erase your identity.

Did you really think one bad chapter could make Me forget why I started writing your story in the first place?”

And then He reminded me of something I think we forget far too often: the cross already knew every version of us before Jesus chose to die for us.

The ashamed version.
The addicted version.
The exhausted version.
The version that keeps promising, “God, this is the last time,” and still falls again.

He knew all of it, and He still stayed.

One, two, three. The steps are getting closer again, but this time they do not sound like fear.

This time they sound like mercy. They sound like a Father running toward His child. They sound like chains finally hitting the floor. They sound like grace entering the room before shame has the chance to lock the door again.

And maybe healing is not always loud and dramatic like we expect it to be. Maybe healing sometimes looks like choosing to get back up one more time.