The Subtle Art of God’s Mercy
God’s mercy is like the light that slants through your bedroom window — a beam that doesn’t ask if you’re awake or ready, it just enters, quiet and indifferent to the ruin it finds. I’ve seen tragedy, how it guts you from the inside out, a violence so complete it leaves you tender, raw, skinless. Pain doesn’t knock; it claws. It takes its seat at your table, drinks your coffee, rearranges your bones until you are something else — something other than what you once believed you were.
Mercy, though, it comes after. It doesn’t shield you from the fire, no. It waits until the flames have devoured everything you clung to, every illusion of safety, of certainty, and then it stands there, hand outstretched, saying, “Live, still.”
How could it ask that of me? How dare it? To live after tragedy feels like an offense against the dead, against the pieces of yourself you’ve buried.
But the body… oh, the body keeps breathing. Against all logic, all desire, your heart continues its beat, rebellious in its persistence. And what are you to do but follow? Pain changes you-it dissects you, forces you into the hollow places you avoided. But it also gives birth to something you never asked for: resilience. A spine made of scars, an eye that sees through the veil.
After the tragedy, you walk the earth as both the living and the dead, carrying the weight of all the ghosts you’ve become. Yet somehow, in the cracks where the light gets in, mercy sings its quiet song. It doesn’t promise you healing, not in the way you want it. But it whispers that you can still hold your grief and be human, that there is still love after the wreckage, still breath after the collapse.
God’s mercy isn’t about avoiding pain-it’s about surviving it. It’s about learning to live with the open wound, to walk through the world, not as a broken thing, but as a thing that knows its brokenness and lives on anyway.
B 🤍
Originally published at http://thepedophilehuntress.com on September 27, 2024.
