The Question That Changed Her Life

“Do you think God could still love someone like me?”

She hadn’t meant to say it out loud. The question had slipped out like a whisper she couldn’t catch, hanging awkwardly between them, trembling with more history than she could admit.

Mara sat hunched on the edge of the hospital bed, one hand gripping the thin blanket, the other clutching her ribs. The bruises were still fresh. The nurse had left an hour ago. Her face was clean now, but no amount of warm water could scrub away the things she had done—or what had been done to her.

Across from her sat a chaplain, older, quiet, with kind eyes that didn’t flinch when he saw the deep purple bloom across her cheek. He had only asked if she wanted company. She had said yes before her fear could argue.

The room hummed with fluorescent light and beeping monitors. Outside, rain licked the windows. Inside, the air held that sterile chill of antiseptic and loneliness.

Mara looked down. “You probably get all kinds in here. But I bet not many like me.”

The chaplain said nothing at first. Just let the silence settle like dust on the floor between them. Then, gently, he asked, “Do you want to tell me who you think you are?”

She laughed once—dry, bitter. “What does it matter? I’ve stolen, lied, been with men I can’t even remember. I’ve had two abortions. I’ve broken every commandment without even blinking.” Her voice cracked. “I used to go to Sunday school. I used to sing in the Christmas play.”

Tears slipped from her eyes and she hated them.

He leaned forward, not intrusively, just enough. “You said you used to go to church. Did you ever hear the story of the woman at the well?”

She blinked. “You mean the Samaritan woman?”

He nodded. “She was shunned by her village. Married five times. Living with a man who wasn’t her husband. Jesus didn’t avoid her. He waited for her. Spoke to her. Offered her living water.”

Mara wiped her nose on her sleeve. “That’s not the same. I’m not a story.”

“No,” the chaplain said quietly. “You’re not. You’re someone He still waits for.”

She didn’t know what to do with that. So she just stared at him, lips parted, unable to speak.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. The question kept circling back: Do you think God could still love someone like me? It followed her through the IV drip, the buzz of the intercom, the nurse checking her vitals.

The next morning, she found a small folded paper on the chair where the chaplain had sat. Just one line, scribbled in uneven script: “While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Romans 5:8.

She didn’t know why, but she read it over and over. Like the words were unraveling something in her, something she had bound tight with shame.

She was discharged the next day. Nowhere to go but a shelter the hospital arranged. She didn’t argue. She didn’t feel like she had a right to.

At the shelter, she kept to herself. Ate little. Avoided mirrors. The women there were rough, kind, loud, haunted. She felt invisible.

Until one evening, a volunteer came in with a guitar. She sang hymns—soft ones, old ones Mara remembered from when she was eight, swinging her legs in the pew beside her mother.

“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…”

She turned away. But the melody followed her. That night, Mara knelt by the cot and whispered a prayer. Not elegant. Not long. Just a breath:

If You’re still there, if You still want me… please.

No thunder. No vision. Just the warmth of tears that didn’t sting, and a strange lightness in her chest—as if someone had peeled back the curtain of her soul and let grace pour in.

She started attending the Bible study at the shelter. Sat in the back. Listened more than she spoke. One day, a young woman sat beside her, arms folded, eyes wary.

“I don’t belong here,” the girl muttered.

Mara looked at her, heart aching at the familiarity. Then, without thinking, she leaned in and said, “Do you think God could still love someone like me?”

The girl blinked. “What?”

“It’s what I asked once.” Mara smiled, and for the first time in years, it reached her eyes. “Turns out, the answer was yes.”

Months passed. Mara found work—cleaning offices after hours. It wasn’t much, but it was honest. She saved what she could. She called her sister. They hadn’t spoken in years. Her sister cried when she answered.

One Sunday, Mara stepped into a small church tucked between two gas stations. She sat in the back, as usual, clutching her bag to her chest. During the last song, the pastor invited anyone who wanted to come forward to pray.

Mara didn’t move. But she whispered again.

Thank You.

Her life wasn’t perfect. The scars on her face faded slower than the ones on her heart. But something had changed.

Not everything made sense. But this she knew: the question that had haunted her—Do You still love someone like me?—had been answered in a thousand small ways.

In a chaplain’s quiet eyes.

In the line of a verse on crumpled paper.

In the sound of a hymn beneath a shelter’s roof.

In the silence of a whispered prayer.

Years later, she was asked to speak at a women’s recovery meeting. She hesitated. She didn’t feel qualified. But she went.

She stood in front of a dozen fragile hearts and told them her story. She didn’t clean it up. She didn’t dramatize it. She just told the truth.

And at the end, a woman with trembling hands raised hers.

“Do you think God could still love someone like me?”

Mara smiled through tears. “Yes,” she said. “I know He can.”

And the room, heavy with history, seemed to exhale—like grace itself had come to sit among them.

Because it had.