I look around me,
and I see stories written in scars.

My cousin,
the one who curses the name above all names,
who spits out words like daggers,
calling Him a mere man,
boasting with a smirk that hell is his destination.
I wonder—
is it really confidence, or is it a shield?
Because no one dreams of fire,
no one longs for chains,
yet he clings to disbelief like it’s his only comfort.
Maybe because his world was shattered before he even knew how to dream.
Broken family, broken trust, broken love.
How do you believe in a God you think abandoned you?
But I refuse to accept that darkness as final.
No soul is too far gone,
no heart too hardened.
Saul breathed threats against believers,
yet he became Paul,
the messenger of life.
If grace can rewrite his story,
then grace can also reach my cousin.
Even if he doesn’t believe it yet.

And then there’s my aunt.
Bitterness sits on her tongue like a taste she cannot wash away.
Her heart always leans one way—
her son’s way—
never pausing to weigh truth,
never listening to the other side.
Bitterness has made her blind,
her ears deaf,
her heart stone.
I used to think this was just her nature,
but I’ve seen enough to realize
bitterness is not who you are—
it’s what you carry.
And what you carry can either crush you
or be surrendered and set free.
Bitterness hardens the heart,
makes life heavy,
but when you finally release it,
when you return to grace,
your stone heart becomes flesh again.
And flesh can feel.
Flesh can forgive.
Flesh can breathe.

And then there’s me.
The mirror I avoided for so long
because I couldn’t bear to see my reflection.
I’ve done things I swore I never would.
I crossed lines I thought I’d never cross.
And shame, oh shame—
it clung to me like chains I couldn’t break.
The whispers came in the night:
“You’re madungis. You’re disgusting.
You are loved only because of your sin,
and without it, you are nothing.”
But I know now—
that voice was never mine.
That voice was the liar’s,
the same liar who tricked Eve in the garden,
the same liar who wants me bound.
Because the truth is different.
The truth is brighter.
I was loved not because of sin,
but despite it.
I was embraced not in my perfection,
but in my brokenness.
I was washed clean,
not because I earned it,
but because mercy found me.

And still, around me,
I see people bowing to statues,
lifting their prayers to mouths that cannot speak,
to ears that cannot hear,
to feet that cannot walk.
They carve them, paint them,
then carry them on their shoulders—
because idols cannot carry themselves.
Made by human hands,
yet worshiped as if they hold power.
But I’ve learned this:
the true God doesn’t need to be carried.
He is the One who carries us.
He doesn’t have painted eyes,
yet He sees the deepest corners of my soul.
He doesn’t have clay ears,
yet He hears every cry,
even the ones I whisper only in my heart.
Why trust what is dead,
when the Living One is reaching out His hand?

So here I stand,
looking at all of us—
my cousin in disbelief,
my aunt in bitterness,
myself in guilt,
and a world clinging to lifeless idols.
Four different prisons,
but one key that unlocks them all.
We are broken,
but broken pieces still belong in the Artist’s hands.
We are bruised,
but bruises can heal when touched by grace.
We are lost,
but even the lost can be found.

And that’s the truth I hold onto:
Bitterness can harden you,
but it can also soften you when you let it go.
Darkness can blind you,
but it cannot withstand the light forever.
Shame can bury you,
but it cannot define you.
Idols can be lifted up,
but they can never lift you.

I choose to believe—
not in the weight of the chains,
but in the One who breaks them.
I choose to believe—
not in bitterness, not in guilt, not in lies,
not in statues of stone,
but in redemption.

Because no soul is too dark,
no heart is too hard,
no past is too *****,
and no idol is too strong,
for grace to overcome.

And so I believe.
I still believe.