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All the words I have ever thought, written, but never spoke, feel like they’ve been stolen before I even had the chance to make them mine. How can I claim to be a child of God when I come before him in my purple dress, made filthy? I sit there, at the steps of his throne unworthy. A supposed beautiful creation, ugly, tearful, dirty, unclean. How could this shadow be loved? This dress, once that little girl’s favourite, but that day, made into her worst guilt. She never wore it again. But here I kneel before the Father draped in that child’s, my own purple fear. I cannot Look into His holy eyes, I am not worthy to even be here. I am damaged goods, I am a broken temple. But he takes my face in his hands and says “Take off that dress, and tear it, for I have made you one from the cloths of my robe.” I am dressed by my holy father, I am unworthy, yet, I am deeply, unconditionally loved. I am not a mistake, though I am broken. I can be made whole again. That child is not lost, she is not dead, she is me, and I her. And someday, you will look out into the fields and you will see her picking flowers, apologizing after every one she takes, dancing to the song the wind makes. She belongs to the light, the holiness of God, and it is time for me to find her, and bring her home. For she deserves to be unconditionally loved.
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