He didn’t mean to say it. The words flew out of Jason’s mouth before his mind caught up. Anger flared hot, his fists clenched at his sides—and just like that, the old version of himself was back.
He stood there, stunned. A moment ago, he was praying. A moment ago, he was singing worship in his car on the drive home. And now, he had shouted at his wife—wounded her with the sharpest part of his tongue.
His heart sank like a stone in water.
Can I really be saved… and still do something like that?
It’s a question that slips through the cracks of every soul who’s fallen. What if I sin again after coming to Christ? What happens when the “new creation” doesn’t feel all that new? Jesus may have saved me, we think—but is He still saving me now, when I’ve blown it again?
Scripture never turns away from this question. It names it, faces it, and holds out hope to those who stumble.
In 1 John 1:9, we read: “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”
It’s not a one-time promise; it’s a continual invitation. This verse wasn’t written for people who never mess up—it was written for the ones who do, and who still come back.
Paul knew this struggle too. In Romans 7:15, he confessed, “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.”
Here’s a man who met the risen Christ face-to-face, who preached the gospel in hostile cities, and penned much of the New Testament. And yet he battled the same tension we do: the heart that wants to honor God and the flesh that keeps tripping.
He wasn’t writing hypotheticals. He was telling us the truth about life with Jesus: we are utterly saved, and still deeply in need. Saved once and for all, and still growing day by day.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—like the minute you start walking in the light, your shadow grows longer. Guilt clouds your worship. Shame sneaks into your prayers. “How could I have done it again?” you whisper, hoping no one hears.
But God hears. And He answers with grace.
Proverbs 24:16 says, “Though the righteous fall seven times, they rise again.”
Notice it doesn’t say the wicked fall—it says the righteous do. Falling, then, isn’t evidence that we are lost. It’s evidence we’re still in the fight.
The righteous are not those who never fall. They are those who refuse to stay down.
There’s something tender, even fierce, in God’s mercy. He doesn’t give us a one-chance salvation. He sets up a life of returning—where grace meets us every time and cleansing comes as often as we ask.
I think of Peter. The man walked on water and then denied Christ. Three times. And yet Jesus came to him again, not with a lecture, but breakfast and a question: “Do you love me?”
That’s what He asks us too. Not, “Have you perfected yourself?” but, “Will you keep coming back?”
Repentance isn’t just for the day of salvation. It’s the rhythm of a rescued heart.
Forgiveness isn’t just a door we walk through once. It’s the path we walk on—again and again.
Jason apologized to his wife. Asked her forgiveness. Then he slipped away to the quiet corner of his bedroom to talk with God. Not because he feared he was no longer saved, but because he knew he was. And being saved meant still needing grace.
On the other side of failure, God doesn’t send us away. He pulls us closer. He knows the sin. He paid for it. And He promises, day after day: “I’m still here. Get up. Let’s keep going.”
Holiness isn’t the absence of mess—it’s being made whole in spite of it.
So if you’ve fallen, friend, don’t stay there. Rise.
Confess it. Receive mercy. Let the grace that saved you once, save you again.
Because God doesn't love a cleaned-up version of you—He loves the honest, fighting, often-flawed you, who keeps coming back.
Some days, you will sprint toward holiness. Other days, you will crawl. But you are not disqualified.
You're still on this road because His forgiveness flows in a direction: forward.
He didn’t mean to say it. The words flew out of Jason’s mouth before his mind caught up. Anger flared hot, his fists clenched at his sides—and just like that, the old version of himself was back.
He stood there, stunned. A moment ago, he was praying. A moment ago, he was singing worship in his car on the drive home. And now, he had shouted at his wife—wounded her with the sharpest part of his tongue.
His heart sank like a stone in water.
Can I really be saved… and still do something like that?
It’s a question that slips through the cracks of every soul who’s fallen. What if I sin again after coming to Christ? What happens when the “new creation” doesn’t feel all that new? Jesus may have saved me, we think—but is He still saving me now, when I’ve blown it again?
Scripture never turns away from this question. It names it, faces it, and holds out hope to those who stumble.
In 1 John 1:9, we read: “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”
It’s not a one-time promise; it’s a continual invitation. This verse wasn’t written for people who never mess up—it was written for the ones who do, and who still come back.
Paul knew this struggle too. In Romans 7:15, he confessed, “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.”
Here’s a man who met the risen Christ face-to-face, who preached the gospel in hostile cities, and penned much of the New Testament. And yet he battled the same tension we do: the heart that wants to honor God and the flesh that keeps tripping.
He wasn’t writing hypotheticals. He was telling us the truth about life with Jesus: we are utterly saved, and still deeply in need. Saved once and for all, and still growing day by day.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—like the minute you start walking in the light, your shadow grows longer. Guilt clouds your worship. Shame sneaks into your prayers. “How could I have done it again?” you whisper, hoping no one hears.
But God hears. And He answers with grace.
Proverbs 24:16 says, “Though the righteous fall seven times, they rise again.”
Notice it doesn’t say the wicked fall—it says the righteous do. Falling, then, isn’t evidence that we are lost. It’s evidence we’re still in the fight.
The righteous are not those who never fall. They are those who refuse to stay down.
There’s something tender, even fierce, in God’s mercy. He doesn’t give us a one-chance salvation. He sets up a life of returning—where grace meets us every time and cleansing comes as often as we ask.
I think of Peter. The man walked on water and then denied Christ. Three times. And yet Jesus came to him again, not with a lecture, but breakfast and a question: “Do you love me?”
That’s what He asks us too. Not, “Have you perfected yourself?” but, “Will you keep coming back?”
Repentance isn’t just for the day of salvation. It’s the rhythm of a rescued heart.
Forgiveness isn’t just a door we walk through once. It’s the path we walk on—again and again.
Jason apologized to his wife. Asked her forgiveness. Then he slipped away to the quiet corner of his bedroom to talk with God. Not because he feared he was no longer saved, but because he knew he was. And being saved meant still needing grace.
On the other side of failure, God doesn’t send us away. He pulls us closer. He knows the sin. He paid for it. And He promises, day after day: “I’m still here. Get up. Let’s keep going.”
Holiness isn’t the absence of mess—it’s being made whole in spite of it.
So if you’ve fallen, friend, don’t stay there. Rise.
Confess it. Receive mercy. Let the grace that saved you once, save you again.
Because God doesn't love a cleaned-up version of you—He loves the honest, fighting, often-flawed you, who keeps coming back.
Some days, you will sprint toward holiness. Other days, you will crawl. But you are not disqualified.
You're still on this road because His forgiveness flows in a direction: forward.
