A Story Written with Mercy’s Pen

“The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.” — Exodus 14:14

Some stories are hard to tell because they hold so much weight. They carry wounds, scars, and whispered prayers from the past—prayers we weren’t sure God was listening to. But He was. He always was.

This is my family’s story. A story of love and loss, of betrayal and brokenness, of faith and redemption.

---

The Weight of a Broken Story

My parents met when they were just 13. They got married at 18. And by 20, they had me.

But it wasn’t the love story you’d hope for. It was chaotic—riddled with betrayal and heartache. My dad was in and out, one affair after another, leaving devastation in his wake.

My mom—young, hopeful, and faithful—was left to pick up the shattered pieces, carrying the crushing weight of unspoken shame, lingering guilt, and wounds too deep for words.

When I was 17, my parents divorced. My mom had been drowning in heartbreak for years, fighting for a marriage that no longer existed. Walking away wasn’t an act of freedom—it was survival.

But a piece of her still remained trapped in the past.

Because freedom isn’t found in signed paperwork, it isn’t granted by time passing or by pretending you’ve healed. The echoes of past pain still linger. The wounds still ache.

For over 30 years, she moved forward, building a beautiful life beyond the pain .But no matter how far she went, the past lingered—quiet but unshaken, waiting to be acknowledged.

Until now.

She knew it was time. Not because she wanted to.Not because she had the strength on her own.But because she heard the Lord tell her to go. There was no mistaking His voice.

This wasn’t something she would have ever done on her own. She would’ve carried it for another 30 years if it meant avoiding the confrontation.

But God wasn’t asking her to revisit the past to reopen wounds—He was leading her to the final chapter, the one where He writes healed over the pain

---

The Conversation That Changed Everything

In a quiet act of obedience, my mom and sister got in the car and drove to see my dad.

She didn’t go looking for an apology. She didn’t go hoping for a grand moment of reconciliation. She went because she knew God was calling her to release something. To finally let go.

She walked into that conversation unsure of what she’d say, only sure of the God who had brought her there.

At first, it was exactly what you’d expect from someone who’s lived in denial for decades. Defensiveness. Justification. Redirection. The past has a way of blinding people to the pain they’ve caused. But this moment wasn’t about him. It was about her.

She wasn't there to rehash or accuse. She was there to speak the truth.

And when the time came, she didn’t yell. She didn’t unravel. She simply let the words rise to the surface after a lifetime of silence.

“You were the worst person I could have ever met.”

It wasn’t meant to wound. It wasn’t rooted in rage. It was a release. A final exhale of what she had carried for far too long.

At that moment, something unexpected happened. He paused. Hung his head. And he apologized. Not a shallow “I’m sorry.” But a real acknowledgment of the pain he caused. The destruction he left behind.

And then, like many do, he turned inward—Sharing his wounds, his brokenness, his childhood pain. And that’s when my mom saw something clearly: She wasn’t a woman scorned. She was the collateral damage of a curse that had never been broken.

---

A New Heart, A New Identity

She stepped into that conversation with no expectations—just a heavy heart. But somehow, she walked away carrying something she never thought she'd find: peace.

She described it like open-heart surgery. Not stitches. Not a quick fix. But a brand-new heart. God wasn’t patching her up. He was making her whole.

She realized what she once thought was love for my father wasn’t love at all. It was obsession. A consuming, boundaryless devotion that let him take and take while she gave everything. And she saw it for what it was: Idolatry.

That kind of love was never meant for a person. That kind of love belongs only to Jesus.

And if there’s one thing my mom has learned through all of this, it’s that she was always stronger than she believed.

Jesus is bigger than every mistake. Every scar. Every shattered dream, and when you are a daughter of the King, you carry a different identity. And for the first time in her life, my mom chose to step into it. She stepped into royalty. She stepped into the unshakable identity that belongs to her in Jesus Christ.

And I know—because of Jesus—she will never be the same.

---

The Ripple Effect

Watching my mom walk through this moment wrecked me in the best way.

Because as much as this was her healing, it was mine, too.

For most of my life, I watched her carry quiet pain. I saw it shape how she loved, how she trusted. It became the invisible thread woven into our family story—something we didn’t talk about, but we all felt.

And if I’m honest, I carried my own bitterness. Toward my dad. Toward the years we lost. Toward the years of hurt I witnessed. But this moment—sacred, courageous, and achingly raw—shifted everything.

I caught a glimpse of what redemption really is. It’s not always neat, and it rarely comes tied up with a pretty bow. But when God steps into our mess, there’s always beauty rising. And for the first time in my life, I saw my mom free. And in some way, I felt it, too.

---

Healing is hard.

But it is always worth it. God is in the details. And because His love was there from the beginning, it will write the ending—with mercy’s pen.

---

My Prayer

Jesus,

You see every wound, every scar, every tear shed in silence. You know the weight of what we carry—the burdens we think we must bear alone. But You never meant for us to carry them alone. God, thank You for redemption.

Thank You for stepping into the darkest places of our stories and breathing life into what we thought was dead. Thank You for being the God who restores, who heals, who makes all things new.

For those who are still hurting—For the ones who have yet to speak their pain out loud—Give them courage. Give them strength to face what they fear, knowing You go before them.

Let them feel Your presence in the middle of their storms. Let them know they are not forgotten. God, break the chains of generational pain. Stop the cycles of abuse, of brokenness, of suffering passed down like inheritance. Let the healing start with us.

And when we don’t have the words—When we’re tired of carrying it all—Let us find rest at Your feet. Because You are the only one who can take the weight of it and turn it into something beautiful.

Amen.