God’s Love is Holy Ground

Of all the things I’ve tried to write about—my sin, my past, even my pain—nothing has broken me like trying to write about God’s love.

Not because I don’t believe in it, but because I do. And His love isn’t just a comforting idea—it’s holy ground. The kind of love that wrecks you because it doesn’t leave you the same. The kind that looks into the places you were most rejected… and calls you chosen.

I was born into a world that didn’t want me. My father didn’t want me, and though my mother kept me, I often felt like my very existence was something that only burdened her. All I ever wanted was to be enough—for her to look at me and see just me—not my father’s broken promises.

From the beginning, I carried the quiet message that I was a burden. Too much. Not enough. Unworthy of love.

And when you’re raised in rejection, you start to believe that love is something you have to chase, perform for, beg for—or else, you lose it.

So, I worked. I tried to be everything people wanted. I became whoever I thought I had to be so they wouldn’t see who I really was underneath—the girl who never felt good enough, never felt wanted, and never really felt seen.

I wore masks not to hide, but to survive. If I could be useful, perfect, needed… maybe then I’d be loved.

Then I found Jesus. Or maybe, more accurately—He found me.

I was still new in my faith when I came across a verse that split me open in the best way:

“Though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will receive me.” — Psalm 27:10

When I read that scripture, I couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t poetic. This was personal. It was like God looked at my exact wound—the rejection that shaped my entire life—and said, I see you. I want you. I’ll take you in.

I’ve carried rejection that didn’t start with me—but it lived in me. I wasn’t trying to be special. I just wanted to be enough. Enough to be loved. Enough to be kept. Enough to not remind anyone of who left.

That’s when I knew this wasn’t like any love I had ever known.

God didn’t ask me to clean up first. He didn’t wait for me to earn it. He didn’t measure my worth by how easy I was to love. He stepped right into the center of my story—the abandonment, the grief, the ache—and made it holy ground.

That’s what God’s love feels like to me. It’s not clean or perfect—it’s holy because He steps into it. His love doesn’t demand I fix myself first; it makes me whole as I am. His love transforms the places I thought were unworthy—where I hid, where I doubted, where I thought I wasn’t enough—into holy ground. Because He’s here. And that’s what makes it sacred.

I’m still learning to stop performing. Still learning to stop proving. Still learning to believe that I don’t have to fight for a place in His heart—I already have it.

God’s love is holy ground. It’s where my broken identity died, and a new one was born.

I don’t stand there with answers. I stand there barefoot, trembling, and grateful. Because He didn’t just fix me.

He loved me. He took me in. He made me His.