Mercy Enters Before You Are Clean

The key turns. The lock clicks.

And you freeze in the hallway, convinced the air around you is thick enough to choke on, certain they can smell the guilt radiating off your skin like smoke. You hold your breath, waiting for the accusation, for the moment they name what you have done.

But the door opens to silence, not judgment. The light that walks through that door does not sniff out your failure; it sees only the person standing in the dark, terrified of being found.

There is a love that does not need the air cleared before it enters. It comes in, takes off its coat, and sits with you in the very room you thought was contaminated.

You are waiting for a verdict, but the only thing that crosses the threshold is mercy. The guilt tells you that you must be clean to be loved; the light shows you that you are loved so you can finally be clean.