Mercy Meets You Before You Speak

The evening gathers, and the house grows quiet, but your eyes are still scanning the face you love for the slightest flicker of exhaustion. You are looking for the moment their capacity to forgive you finally runs dry, bracing for the silence that means you have gone too far.

But the light does not keep a ledger of how many times you have stumbled, nor does it measure your worth by your ability to be perfect. There is a bruised reed the light will not break, and a smoldering wick it will not snuff out, no matter how many times you have nearly gone dark.

You are not defined by the fear that you are too much to be loved, but by the mercy that meets you before you can even speak. The darkness may gather outside, but it cannot dictate the verdict inside this room.