Elara's Decision

The sanctuary was empty, smelling of lemon polish and old hymnals. Elara sat in the back row, her fingers tracing a jagged scar on her palm—a physical reminder of a childhood where words had been sharper than blades.

For twenty years, she had been told she was a "broken vessel," a "burden," and "unlovable." Those labels were the skin she wore. Now, staring at the rugged wooden cross at the front of the room, she felt a heavy, terrifying pull.

The Weight of the Invitation

She had heard the invitation a thousand times: Come as you are. But Elara didn't know how to come as anything other than a collection of mistakes and mirrors reflecting other people's hate.

The Quiet Realization

She closed her eyes, trying to imagine a version of Jesus that didn't look like the authority figures she’d known. She thought about the stories of the woman at the well and the man with leprosy—people who were socially invisible or "ruined." He hadn't asked them for a resume of worthiness before He healed them.

"I’m too messy," she whispered to the dust motes dancing in the light. "There’s nothing left to save."

Then, a thought—small, clear, and unlike her own internal critic—surfaced: I don't need your perfection; I just want your heart. I’m the one who made it.

The Threshold

Elara looked at her hands. They were shaking. To make Him "Lord" meant firing the cruel voices that had ruled her mind for decades. It meant believing, for the first time, that her value wasn't something she had to earn, but something that had already been paid for.

She wasn't ready to feel "whole" yet. But as she took a shaky breath and stood up, she realized she didn't have to be whole to be held.

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