You have spoken it yourself, the one true word in all the muddle: you want to live. That is not the sound of a soul content to perish. It is the gasp of a woman who has been pushed under the dark water, who has gone down into the shame and the folly and the bitter after-taste, and has come up again with a cry. I hear it in your lines. The very act of writing it, that is faith at its smallest, the faith of a bruised reed. And Christ does not snap bruised reeds.
So let me sit with you a moment and put my finger on the one spot that most troubles you. Not the drinking alone, not the anger of your sister or the averted faces of your daughters, but the dread that you have gone too far for mercy. That is the old serpent’s whisper. And I will answer it straight out. There is forgiveness with God. Not merely a pardon doled out grudgingly to respectable slip-ups, but a vast, fatherly, God-sized forgiveness that swallows up whole binges of sin. That is the architecture of the gospel. The only people Christ ever turned away were those who would not come. To every foul, filthy, undone sinner who staggered or crept or was carried into his presence, he spoke one of two words: “Your sins are forgiven,” or “Go in peace.” And sometimes both at once.
Do you recall the man who was let down through the roof? He was paralyzed, helpless as a log. He could not move a hand toward Jesus; his friends had to drag him. And what is the first word out of Jesus’ mouth to him? “Son.” Not “you drunkard,” not “you shame-bringer,” not “you who have humiliated your household.” Son. And then, “Your sins are forgiven.” In that hour the man’s greater need was not steady legs. It was a clean soul. His sickness had not half the weight of his sin. So the Master reached past the surface trouble and healed the deep hidden wound first. Then came the strength to rise and walk.
You see yourself now all over spattered, and so you are. But the one who blots out transgressions does not stand at a distance and demand you clean yourself up before you call. His mercy comes to the very gutter. “I, even I, am he that blotteth out thy transgressions for mine own sake, and will not remember thy sins.” Those are God’s own words for people who had not prayed, who had despised religion, who had wearied themselves in the length of their way without saying there is no hope. They were spent and shamed, yet still clutching at the life of their hand. And into that hollow condition drops the soft “But.” “If thou, Lord, shouldest mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand? But there is forgiveness with thee.” That little word is the silver bell sounding after the thunderclap. The black cloud of your guilt has a lightning-flash of mercy written across it. Only believe it.
And let me press the sweetness a little closer. You are not dealing with a God who must be bullied into compassion. Mercy is his delight. He does not pardon with a sigh and a half-turned shoulder. Scripture never says he delights in judgment, but it does say he delights in mercy. It is his Benjamin, the son of his right hand, the child born after the first sin had spoiled the garden. When he rises to show mercy, he rides on the wings of the wind. He is more ready to forgive than you are to ask. The prodigal had scarcely begun his rehearsed speech when the father fell on his neck and kissed him and called for the best robe. The robe covered the rags at once. The father did not say, “We will try this on provisionally and see how you behave.” No, it was done. The ring, the shoes, the feast, all instant, all lavish, as though the boy had never left.
What I want you to hear this hour is that God’s grace can make you as though you had never fallen. “They shall be as though I had not cast them aside.” Not half-forgiven, not permanently second-rate, not forever carrying a faint scent of the sty. The blood of Jesus cleanseth from all sin. Not some sin, not the sins of others, but all. That black-edged envelope you dread to open, the memory of those days, the humiliating texts, the looks on your daughters’ faces, Christ can kiss the sting out of it and in time give you back a holy, quiet joy. He does not promise your sister will soften or your daughters will understand at once. But he does promise to be your God and to hear you when you cry. And that is enough to live on.
This little ray of brightness, this old friend who has written and wants to visit, do not despise a common kindness. It may be nothing more than a morning star twinkling in your darkness, but even that is placed there by the hand that governs all planets. Pray for courage for him, yes, but more, let it be a finger-post pointing you back to the Friend of sinners. When the heart begins to hope, even in trifles, it proves the great healer is at work in the basement of the soul.
So come now, right where you are. Do not wait to feel better. Do not wait until the sting of humiliation has died down. Bring all the shame, the empty bottles, the hollow loneliness, the fear that you have ruined your daughters’ respect, the loathing of your own face in the mirror, and lay it in a heap at Jesus’ feet. He has never yet refused a single burden that was honestly rolled over onto him. Say in your heart, “Lord, I am the one they are speaking of. I have no argument. But thou hast said, ‘There is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared.’ Fulfil that word for a poor sinner who wants to live.”
Let us pray.
Almighty God, whose property is always to have mercy, look upon this dear woman whose spirit is broken and whose mouth is filled with gravel. Thou knowest the depths she has plumbed, the nights she cannot forget, the faces she sees when she closes her eyes. Do what thou alone canst do: forgive freely, fully, for Christ’s sake. Bury her sins in the sea of thy forgetfulness, and let no foul bird bring them back to pick at her peace. Lift her head. Give her one clear glimpse of thy face in Jesus Christ, the Saviour of sinners, and let that glimpse heal her heart and steady her feet. As for the old friend who is stirring old tenderness, guide as thou pleasest, but let her chiefest visitor be the Comforter himself. Make thy word a lamp for this hour, and strength for the morrow. And wilt thou, O tender Shepherd, gather the lambs of her household, the daughters and the sister, and in thine own time bind up that which was torn. All this we whisper, unworthy, in the name of Jesus, who wept and bled and lives. Amen.
Prayer Focus: God, Thank You for loving me. Thank You for loving me, Jesus. God, I ask You in Jesus’ name please bless me with everything that I stand in need of and everything You want me to have. 
