Among The Ruins

E P I L O G U E

I once read a quote that said, "Whenever God restores something, He restores it to a place greater than it was before."

I believed it. I saw it in Scripture—in David, in Moses, in every story where human weakness became the stage for divine glory. I clung to those testimonies like they were gospel within the Gospel.

But belief is simple until it is tested.

When failure became my own story, everything I thought I knew about grace trembled. I knew God restored. I just didn't believe He would restore me.

Instead of running to Him, I let shame build its walls around me. I curled inward. I chose the shadows. I sank into filth I could have been freed from. I forgot the God who rescues captives.

And I asked myself over and over: How could He still love me after everything I knowingly chose? How could someone already saved still betray Him?

I had failed—no excuses could soften it.

For years, sin hung on me like a cloak. For a long time, the name Adulterer felt like the truest name I had.

And slowly, the lie slithered in:

Maybe failure is my purpose.
Maybe I was born to fall.
Maybe my life is a cautionary tale, not a testimony.

I believed it.

But had I seen the fullness of God's plan then, I would have shut the gates of my heart to even the faintest whisper of that lie.

Because now I know:

God does not abandon what is broken. He enters the ruins—and rebuilds from within.

I drew in a breath as the sanctuary came into view, pews filled with faces familiar and new. I lifted the hem of my gown and held onto Uncle Dennis' arm. Each step felt like walking out of a grave and into morning.

When I reached the altar, my eyes lifted—and there he was.

David.

The man who had seen the ruins of my heart and did not turn away. The man who prayed with me when all I could do was weep. The man who held space for God's work instead of rushing to fix what was not his to mend.

Beside him, I felt the rubble had purpose. Beside him, I felt restoration was possible. Not because he completed me—but because he reminded me who my Healer was.

People always ask why my worship carries tears. I never explain. Some things are not learned—only felt.

Because when grace has pulled you out from where you know you should have died, love becomes your language.

Every mess, He turns into a message.
Every trial, a testimony.
Every weakness, a vessel for glory.

That is the God I serve. And the more I know Him, the more I fall in love.

"You look beautiful," David whispered, his fingers closing gently around mine.

"Thank you," I breathed, looking up at him—my heart no longer afraid of being seen.

Pastor Nestor stepped forward, smile warm, voice steady. The music faded into a holy hush.

"Do you, David Awiyao, take Zarinna Bunhiyan as your lawful wife... to love and to cherish... until death do you part?"

David's voice was sure. "I do."

My heart trembled—not with fear, but with awe.

For the first time in my life, I had someone who said I do—and meant it.

"Do you, Zarinna Bunhiyan, take David Awiyao... to love and to cherish... until death do you part?"

I turned to him. The man who stood with me not above my ruins, but among them. The man who knelt and prayed over broken stones until flowers grew.

My smile trembled. My heart overflowed.

"I do."

And that was it.

The past did not vanish—its fragments remained.
But they no longer defined me. God had built something living among the wreckage.

Love.
Grace.
New beginnings.

Our story did not begin in perfection—it began among the ruins.

And that is where God wrote His glory best.

Among the Ruins.