The morning after relapse you find yourself drowning. Feeling like a soiled dress, ironically ironed perfect, waiting to be worn again. The morning after relapse reminds you of the oh-so-many ways things could go wrong, could turn bleak. Did go wrong, did turn bleak. Could swallow you whole into a never-ending spiral of doom, or worse. In the morning after relapse there are no ways to express pain, or guilt. It all just builds up into grief and anger, but mostly rage.

The evening after relapse you start questioning the whole of your sanity, the poor worn out stitches keeping the fabrics of your soul from falling apart. Where did the hours go? It felt like yesterday when you seemed born again, ready to take on the rest of the world. Where is that girl, the one that had promised not to be Gomer? The one that was loyal, brave and true like Mulan – she probably would’ve ended up a true Gryffindor, and you might as well be one of those traitor-like death eaters for all you know. There are dozens of rules to uphold and they only told you one thing: be good. Well, what is good and what is bad? What is dark magic, where does one stop and the other begin? How are you supposed to understand so many things? You are, after all, only twenty-two. What a lame excuse for a sinner, you object.

The night after relapse you wake up with a strange pain on your head and a lump in your throat. The exhaustion has taken its toll and you gave up into a dreamless sleep, even for only a little while. Gathering your thoughts and what’s left of your pride, you look out your window and watch over the moon, who had been watching over you. And as unconditional Grace washes over you, you drink in the sweet, sweet taste of milk and honey, the extraordinarily mundane taste of redemption, the beautiful arms of epiphany rocking you, holding you, never letting go. And she answers, the lines are thin, the flesh is terrifyingly weak, but my Grace, my dear, is sufficient for you.

Sometimes redemption does not always taste like gold. Sometimes being forgiven feels more like an awaited release of your long-held breath, finding yourself swimming back to the surface, even with the struggles and the excruciating pain in your chest. Again you are reminded of Gomer, when she was redeemed by Hosea for fifteen pieces of silver and some homers of barley. Again you are reminded that you are oftentimes Gomer but you are still loved. You are still worthy. And swimming is a constant marathon, a sport you’ll have to live with for the rest of your life. And struggling to keep afloat, you consider, is still a better feat than trying to resurface, no matter how enticing the depths may be.

. . .

The second morning after relapse you find yourself breathing properly again. Freshly-wed, loyal from day one. And the past is long gone, long erased, if you don’t run around looking for it. Relapse is a nature but it is not your master. He takes you as you are and he loves you as he finds you. And the lines are thin, the flesh is weak, but His Grace is sufficient for me.