✞ Scarred Hands Full Of Grace ✞

 

The first time I ran from myself

it tasted like pennies and burnt sugar —

sweetness with a warning label —

while the room blurred at the edges

like watercolor surrendering to rain.

Sin never arrived wearing horns.

It came gentle,

a quiet hand on the back of my neck,

promising rest from a mind

that never stopped screaming.

I called it relief.

God called it wandering.

Addiction was fog —

not violent, just patient —

slipping under doors,

settling into lungs,

until I forgot what clear air felt like.

My body learned escape by memory:

knees shaking like loose floorboards,

heartbeat knocking against my ribs

as if trying to get out first.

Bathroom lights at 3 a.m. —

white, humming, merciless —

buzzed over a face

I recognized only in fragments.

I traded pieces of myself

like spare change at a gas station,

buying moments that numbed the ache

but never touched the wound.

The world smelled like stale air and regret.

My hands trembled like confession

before words ever formed.

And underneath all the noise —

beneath the running,

beneath the excuses —

God stayed.

Not loud.

Not angry.

Just present.

Breathing steady

while I disappeared in slow motion.

Recovery didn’t split the sky open.

No thunder.

No instant freedom.

It sounded like my own breath returning —

ragged, surprised, still willing.

It felt like morning light

slipping through blinds

without asking if I deserved it.

Grace was small at first:

a chipped coffee mug warming my hands,

a quiet room that didn’t accuse me,

the terrifying realization

that I was still alive on purpose.

Healing scraped like sandpaper.

It peeled away the lies

I used as blankets in the dark.

I learned redemption isn’t a moment —

it’s daily bread.

It’s choosing water

when your mouth remembers fire.

It’s falling to your knees

and discovering the ground

has been held by God the whole time.

Some nights the old life still calls —

smoke curling under the door,

a familiar voice saying

I could rest if I just came back.

But I have seen resurrection happen slowly.

Seen dry bones remember how to stand.

Seen mercy stitch together

what shame swore was ruined.

Now the same world smells different —

rain instead of ruin,

air instead of anesthesia.

My scars feel less like punishment

and more like scripture

written directly into skin.

I still carry the ashes.

They live under my nails,

in the pause before sleep,

in songs that pull old ghosts closer.

But ash is only proof

the fire burned

and failed to keep me.

And when I say my name now,

it doesn’t sound like apology.

It sounds like someone

who walked through the wilderness

and found God waiting

on the other side —

hands open,

calling me home.