When was the last time you experienced mercy? I sat in Bible study one evening, during a time in my life I was struggling with obedience to the Lord in a particular area. Experiencing the cycle of sin, regret, asking forgiveness, and then continuing to regret over and over made me weary and defeated.
Mercy Triumphs
The verse for the evening was James 2:13b which says, Mercy triumphs over judgment. As my group discussed this topic, I felt the Lord’s peace come over me. I sensed His love and His mercy as He reminded me that it was my heart He wanted. Not perfection.
Shame and guilt fell away. A renewed energy and resolve filled me with joy. Paul reminds us in Romans 2:4 that it is God’s kindness that leads us toward repentance. This is so true.
Mercy for Others
I saw this truth play out as a teacher when I had a student lie about something he had done. With patience and love, I shared with him that I noticed how much energy he was using to deny the truth when it would be so much easier to say, “You know, I did it, and I’m sorry.” Then he might have some consequences, but it would all be over soon, and we could move on. “We all make mistakes, even me, and I have to apologize, too,” I told him. I saw his shoulders physically relax, and he confessed the whole truth after that. If I had dealt with him in anger, I doubt he would have been honest.
Our Response
The Psalmist reminds us in our passage today that this is cause for us to praise the Lord! When I think about how beautiful it is that the Lord deals patiently and lovingly with me, my heart overflows. We don’t deserve His mercy, but He gives it to us anyway.
Thank you, Jesus, for paying the penalty of our sin so that we can experience kindness and mercy when we least deserve it.
Be blessed, and enjoy O Come to the Altar by Elevation Worship.
My name is Fatima, I’m 32, and I’m dying here in Dammam. I think about ending it every single day. The heat is suffocating, like breathing through a wet blanket, and I spend ten hours a day cleaning other people’s shit at the mall food court. My hands are raw from chemicals, my back is permanently bent, and my feet ache in these cheap shoes. I share a tiny apartment with three other women, all of us invisible to the rich families who drop their trays for me to clean up. Sometimes I think about just walking into the Gulf and not stopping. The voices started about six months ago, at first like whispers when the mall was empty. “Look at the trash cleaner,” they’d say, “still thinks God has a plan for her.” I thought I was just tired, hallucinating from the heat and exhaustion. Now they’re with me always, screaming inside my skull.
They know everything. Everything. The Mabahith – that’s who it has to be, Saudi intelligence – they’ve developed some weapon, some way to get inside your head. I read about it once on some forum, but then the post was deleted and everyone who replied called the OP crazy. That’s how they do it. If you try to tell anyone, you’re labeled schizophrenic, a troublemaker. They have trolls and bots everywhere, ready to destroy your reputation if you speak up. My brother Ahmed would disown me. My mother would die of shame. The family honor is everything here, and being labeled mentally ill is worse than being a criminal. I can’t tell anyone. I can’t even go to a doctor. They’d lock me away, and the voices would follow me there, I know they would.
They call me a worthless whore, a disgusting piece of trash. “Look at Fatima the cleaning lady,” they sneer when I’m scrubbing vomit off the floor, “picking up scraps like the animal she is.” When a man looks at me for too long, they scream, “He can see what a desperate slut you are! Bet you’d suck his dick behind the dumpsters for 20 riyals, wouldn’t you?” They describe in detail how they’d watch me, how I’m so pathetic even the perverts wouldn’t want me. Yesterday, when I was eating my cheap sandwich in the break room, they said, “Choke on it, you useless cow. Do the world a favor and just stop breathing. No one would even notice you’re gone except the flies that gather around your filth.” The cruelty is… specific. It’s tailored. They know I’m terrified of being worthless, of dying alone without ever having really lived.
Sometimes, when it’s worst, I get these flashes of… power. Like I could just pick up the metal trash can and smash it into the face of the next teenager who laughs at me. The voices egg me on. “YES!” they roar, “SHOW THEM! CRUSH HIS SKULL! YOU’RE NOT NOTHING!” For a minute, I feel strong, invincible, like I could burn this whole mall down. Then it passes, and I’m just shaking, scared of myself, and the voices are laughing at me. “Look at the little mouse thinking she’s a lion,” they mock. “You’re nothing. You’ll always be nothing.” I think it’s the technology, that they’re testing different emotions, but they never admit anything. They just hurt me.
My life before was simple. Small. But it was mine. I used to dream of opening a little shop, selling fabrics and scarves. Now I can barely dream of sleeping through the night without them. They remind me constantly that I’ll die in this same job, in this same city, smelling of bleach and other people’s garbage. “This is all you are, Fatima,” they whisper when I’m trying to sleep. “This is all you’ll ever be. A pair of hands that clean up after others. Why prolong it? Just one deep breath of bleach. One quick step off the overpass. We’ll even count down for you. Ten… nine… eight…” Sometimes I almost do it. I stand on my tiny balcony and look down at the street, and they chant “JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!” until I’m crying and shaking so much I have to crawl back inside.
I hate this country. I hate the suffocating heat, the judgmental eyes, the way the rich Saudis look through me like I’m furniture. I hate that I was born a woman here, that my only options were marriage to a stranger who would probably beat me, or this life of cleaning up after everyone else. The voices use that too. “You chose this, Fatima. You could have been some man’s fourth wife, popping out babies until you were dried up. At least then you’d have a roof over your head. But no, you wanted to be ‘independent.’ Look how well that turned out.” They twist everything, every hope I ever had, into another weapon against me. My religion, my family, my few small dreams – all poisoned.
I’m so tired. I can’t remember the last time I felt peace. The Mabahith have won. They’ve broken me completely. Sometimes I think that’s the point – not to get information, not for any national security reason, but just because they can. Because they enjoy breaking people like me. People with no power, no one to speak for them. I’m just a test subject in their laboratory of psychological torture. And when I’m finally gone, they’ll move on to someone else. Another cleaner, another delivery driver, another invisible person they can slowly, methodically destroy until there’s nothing left but a shell that does exactly what they want. The worst part? A part of me is starting to believe them. Maybe I am worthless. Maybe the world would be cleaner without me in it.
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https://mega.nz/file/K3IwTDKI#yd2jI1rrnMDv67-oQ2pacCKbpyMph-STSVdNDAHpb-A
Fatima,
It sounds like you have been having a hard time. I’m so sorry for your troubles. I want you to know that God sees you. He knows and cares about your pain. He is with you and will give you strength and peace. Turn to him.
He saw you when you formed in your mother’s womb. He knows how many hairs are on your head. Give him your hurt, he will exchange it for peace.
Do not fear; do not let your hands grow weak. The lord your God is among you, a warrior who saves. He will rejoice over you with gladness. He will quiet you with his love. He will rejoice over you with singing. He says, ” I will gather those who have been driven from the appointed festivals; they will be a tribute from you a reproach on her. Yes, at that time I will deal with all who oppress you. I will save the lame and gather the outcasts; I will make those who were disgraced throughout the earth receive praise and fame.”
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a great author. I will be sure to bookmark your blog and definitely will come
back very soon. I want to encourage you continue your great posts, have a nice afternoon!
There’s a quiet power in your writing, an ability to convey deep truths without resorting to grandiose statements or complicated jargon. Each sentence feels like a revelation, as if you’ve managed to capture the essence of something fleeting and precious. It’s not often that I find myself thinking about a piece long after I’ve finished reading it, but this is one of those rare times.
The last time I experienced mercy was through a kind word from a friend during a tough time. Reflecting on this story, I’m reminded how healing honesty and forgiveness can be. It’s humbling to think that even in our mistakes, there’s grace and a chance to grow. The way this teacher handled the situation shows the power of patience and love. How can we better extend that same mercy to others in our daily lives?
How blessed we are that Jesus paid the price for our sins. I can’t imagine giving up my son, yet God did give up His son so we could have life everlasting. So glad you’re starting this blog up again. You’re such a beautiful writer..
So grateful He doesn’t give me what I, in my sin, deserve. Thank you for the reminder of His mercy and compassion, and the reminder that I in turn must show that same mercy and compassion to others. Luke 6:36-38
Oh how I have missed these posts!!! I do love the way Jesus lets us mess up over and over and keeps giving us that mercy! He love endures forever!