sometime I write without topic

Trust was a white cloth, soft as a promise, fragile as morning light. We held it like a secret meant to last forever. But life happened. Mud doesn’t ask permission it splashes. It stains. What we once folded like treasure we began to bunch like a rag, something to hide, something we kept from the light. But hope is stubborn. It refuses to stay buried in regret. I searched the Scriptures: “Come now, let us reason together,” says the Lord. Though your sins are scarlet, they shall be white as snow. Though crimson, they shall be like wool. So maybe stains are not sentences. Maybe God is still in the business of washing what we labeled ruined. Can cracked clay remember the warmth of the Potter’s hands? I believe the break is where the gold enters. So let’s stop patching ghosts. Let’s dig past yesterday, tear up the floorboards of pride, pull down the walls of fear, and lay a new foundation with bricks called Mercy. Take my hand, not for perfection, but for willingness. Let forgiveness flow like water, let grace breathe again, let love be born not innocent, redeemed. Trust was a white cloth. And in the hands of the One who makes all things new, it can be white again.