You Do Not Have to Scrub to Be Loved

The water is scalding, but you keep scrubbing, trying to wash off the shame of almost giving in. You are standing in the steam, raw and bleeding, believing that if you can just make the skin hurt enough, the memory will fade.

But the stain you feel is not on your hands. It is a lie whispered in the dark, telling you that you have gone too far to be held.

Listen — the Father saw you before you slipped, and He saw you when you fell, and He is watching you now in this bathroom, weeping not because you failed, but because you think you must clean yourself to be loved. The light does not need your blood to make you whole.

It already lives inside you, untouched by the stumble, brighter than the shame. You do not have to scrub until you disappear to be worthy of the morning.

The water stops. The mirror fogs.

And you are still here, still loved, still His.