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Chapter 31: The Table and the Cross, Part 13
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And then the tears came.
Not quiet ones, not the kind that politely stain a pillow. But sobs. Gut-deep and gasping. The kind that feel like they’ve waited years for permission.
Sister Helena's voice cracked into the stillness—first a whisper, then louder, trembling, like a child’s plea to a parent who’s long been feared but never stopped loving.
“Lord… I have forgiven others. I believe You have forgiven me. But I have not yet forgiven myself. Help me begin.”
Helena's shoulders shook. She clutched her arms around her middle as if trying to hold herself together.
“O God of Mercy… You pulled me from the ruins of my ruin. You took the ashes of my life and made a garden. But I keep walking in it like a graveyard,” Helena sobbed.
She covered her face. Her voice was muffled by her hands, but the pain spilled through anyway.
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Some of your most evocative writing with a powerful image!!
“I carry the names of those I failed…The ones I misled. The ones I betrayed. The…one… I…killed…”
She drew in a sharp, shuddering breath. “I carry their faces like icons in a broken litany. And though You have washed me clean…I reach back for the dirt.”
Helena She fell to her knees. The candlelight danced across her damp cheeks. “Jesus…You spoke peace to the thief. You called Mary by name. You broke bread with traitors…But I—I have only broken myself.”
Silence pressed in, heavy and holy. And then, quieter, more slowly, as though speaking from the depths of her soul rather than her mind: “Teach me how to believe what I already know: That You have called me beloved. That Your wounds are wider than my guilt. That penance is not punishment—but pilgrimage.”
She paused. Tears dripped from her chin to the floor. Her voice was hoarse now, but steady.
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I think every Christian feels this way. We all have a hard time letting go of our guilt and shame even when we know we have been forgiven.