Someone was questioning another woman’s breakthrough. Her glow-up. Her new season.
Not with curiosity—but with quiet suspicion.“She must have done something… How did she get in? How did she find herself again? How is she being accepted so easily after everything?”
I looked this person in the eye and laughed.
Not because the question was amusing.
But because I had finally found the words for something I’ve carried in my heart for years:
“When I look at her story, I see how God is not a man. He is not confined by our records, our grudges, or our need for explanations.”
In our communities—especially in Christian spaces—we speak of grace often.
But we struggle to accept the evidence of it when it shows up in someone we’ve already written off.
We say, “Come as you are,”
but deep down, we hope they’ll stay where we left them.
We struggle with the idea that someone can be restored without our permission.
That God would bless someone who didn’t do penance in public.
We want suffering to last longer than healing.
We want people to prove they’ve changed.
We want them to grovel, explain, apologize forever, stay small—just so it makes sense to us.
But grace doesn’t need to make sense to man.
And thank God it doesn’t.
God doesn’t ask the crowd before He restores someone.
He doesn’t consult our group chats before He opens doors.
He doesn’t filter His favour through our memory of who someone used to be.
He’s not bound by our timelines.
Or our comfort.
Or our boxes.
He sees beyond the moment that stained their name.
He reaches into the shame, the mess, the detour—and calls people into purpose anyway.
So no, she didn’t do something to get there.
She simply walked through a door that you didn’t believe should open for her.
And that says more about your theology of grace than her worthiness.
Let people outgrow the version of them you’re holding onto.
Let them be redeemed.
Let them be free.
Let them rise.
Because if your gospel only works for the people you like or understand—it’s not the gospel.
God is not a man.
And He’s still in the business of rewriting stories that we’ve prematurely ended.