The Weight of Mercy

These past couple of days, I have been weighed down—completely undone—under the mercy of God.

Not in the way I once imagined. I used to think mercy was soft and quiet. A gentle pat on the back. A whispered, “It’s okay.” But now I know better. Now I know mercy doesn’t just comfort—it consumes. It doesn’t merely soothe—it resurrects. And resurrection isn’t painless.

I didn’t realize that freedom could ache through every bone in my body. I didn’t expect that deliverance would make my heart grieve. Not because God’s mercy is cruel—oh no, it’s far from that. But because it is so fiercely loving, so wholly undeserved, so radically pure that it breaks me open.

I find myself crying out to God for the very mercy that is consuming me. It’s like being overwhelmed by beauty too magnificent to bear, like standing beneath a waterfall you can’t get out from under—yet you don’t want to. You just weep beneath its force, knowing it is good, even as it presses down on your soul.

Oh, how undeserving we are of His mercy…

We toss that word around sometimes—mercy—as though it’s small. As if it’s soft enough to hold in our hands, something God doles out like a favor. But mercy is not meek. It’s not passive.

Mercy is heavy—it carried a cross.

Mercy is fierce—it interrupted death.

Mercy is holy—it exposes every corner of our darkness, and it doesn’t leave anything untouched.

Mercy is gracious—so gracious that even dry bones begin to rattle, even tombs crack open, even those long dead rise again.

And suddenly I realize: this is what I’ve asked for all along. Not comfort, not convenience, but mercy. And now that I stand in it, I tremble under the weight of it. Because to be loved like this is to be seen completely. To be known so deeply, and still chosen. Still forgiven. Still called.

It hurts, in the holiest way. The way healing often does.

Who can bear to receive it? Who among us is strong enough to carry something so holy?

The answer is—none of us. Not on our own.

That’s the mercy. He gives it anyway. Not to those who deserve it, but to those who don’t. To the ones who know they’re dust, who fall on their faces under the weight of His love.

And He doesn’t lessen it. He doesn’t tone it down to fit our comfort. He pours it out in full. Because that’s what love does.

So here I am—aching, wrecked, overwhelmed—and more free than I’ve ever been.

Not because I understand His mercy.

But because I’ve surrendered to it.