I was afraid of hell.
So I learned its words.
Its fire.
Its judgment.
I could describe the darkness
better than I could describe You.
I counted my failures
like a man counting coins
he could never spend.
Every sin had a voice.
Every memory had a chain.
Every tomorrow
felt like another chance
to lose You.
Then You spoke.
Not louder.
Closer.
You never asked me
to stare into the abyss.
You kept saying,
“Look at Me.”
I argued with myself.
I measured my failures.
I questioned my faith.
I wondered if I had believed enough,
repented enough,
held on enough.
All the while,
Your scarred hands
were already holding me.
I thought You were standing
at the door of heaven
deciding whether to let me in.
You were standing
at the mouth of my grave,
calling my name.
How long
have I been afraid
of the very One
who was afraid only
that I would refuse Him?
I almost made Christianity
about surviving judgment.
You made it
about coming home.
I almost worshiped
being rescued.
Instead,
I should have fallen
at the feet
of the Rescuer.
Now I understand
why You spoke of hell.
Not because
You wanted my imagination.
Because
You wanted
me.
That truth
breaks something inside me.
Not my hope.
My pride.
I have nothing
to bring You.
Nothing
to bargain with.
Nothing
to defend.
Only empty hands
that finally stopped
trying to save themselves.
If You had not come,
I would still be walking,
certain,
religious,
blind,
and lost.
If You had not called,
I would have died
thinking I was searching for God,
never knowing
God had been searching
for me.
So I have only one prayer left.
When fear begins
to preach louder than grace…
When shame begins
to sound holier than Your voice…
When I begin
looking into the darkness
instead of into Your face…
Call my name
again.
Because I know now
that the greatest miracle
was never
that I escaped hell.
The greatest miracle
is that Jesus
would not let me
miss Him.