Sometimes it feels like no matter how much you try to hold it together, something’s missing underneath. Not broken. Just off. Like there used to be a peace you didn’t have to fight for. A kind of ease. Wholeness. But now there’s a hum of unrest. A low ache. Like you’re reaching for something you used to know but can’t quite name.
That feeling isn’t failure. It’s memory.
The world before shame
There was a time—at the very beginning—when humanity lived in perfect trust. No fear. No hiding. No striving. We were clothed in light. Not just glowing skin, but the radiance of being fully aligned with the God who breathed us into being. We weren’t afraid of being seen. We didn’t have to prove we belonged. We were loved, and we knew it. We were filled with God’s Spirit, and it flowed through us like light.
Our bodies were temples. Our hearts were open. God’s presence wasn’t something we reached for—it lived inside us. That’s what Adam and Eve experienced. And that’s what we were created for too.
The shift we’ve all inherited
But then something shifted. Not because we stopped believing in God—but because we started doubting His heart. The serpent didn’t say “God isn’t real.” He said, “God isn’t good.” He introduced suspicion. He reframed love as control. And in that moment, trust broke. Not with thunder. Not with violence. Just a quiet pull away. A turn inward. A choice to self-protect.
And when that happened, something invisible but essential vanished.
The light disappeared.
Not because God walked away, but because they did. Their hearts withdrew. Fear entered. Shame followed. And suddenly, their own existence felt exposed. Their sense of safety and innocence, once held in God’s presence, now felt fragile and unprotected.
The first self-rescue plan
So they covered themselves.
Fig leaves. Not just clothing—instinct. The first self-rescue plan. The first reaction to shame. That moment became the blueprint for every coping mechanism that followed.
Hide what feels unlovable. Manage what feels broken. Perform enough to feel safe.
We’ve all done this in different ways. Even in our spiritual lives. We try to be good enough to quiet the fear. Try to control our image to feel more worthy. Try to act confident so we don’t have to admit how exposed we feel inside. And just like Adam and Eve, we call it growth. Maturity. Wisdom. But it’s still fig leaves.
A question, not a demand
And then God did something that tells us more about who He is than any doctrine ever could.
He came walking.
Not storming in. Not roaring with judgment. He walked. In the cool of the day. Through the trees. Into the hiding.
He knew what happened. But He didn’t begin with accusation. He began with a question.
“Where are you?”
Not because He was lost. But because they were.
That question wasn’t a trap. It was a door. An invitation back into presence. Back into trust. Back into the open space where love could be restored.
Dignity wrapped in mercy
And when they came out—still afraid, still covered, still unsure how to return—God did something they could never have done for themselves.
He clothed them.
He replaced their fig leaves with garments of His own making. Not because He was uncomfortable seeing them. But because they no longer felt safe being seen. It wasn’t about hiding their sin. It was about restoring their sense of dignity. Meeting them in their fear. Covering them in a way that said, “You are still Mine.” A symbol that even in the aftermath of rupture, He still moved toward them. That love had not withdrawn.
The robe wasn’t a disguise. It was mercy. A quiet first step in the long journey of restoration.
The memory still flickers in you
Because what we lost wasn’t just the light. We lost what it felt like to be fully known and still unafraid. To be loved without needing to perform. To walk with God without bracing ourselves.
And that ache you feel now—the one that lingers beneath the noise, even in the good moments—isn’t just yours. It’s ancient. Inherited. A whisper of something real you were made for.
A robe that doesn’t hide—it heals
That’s why the robe matters.
It’s not a cover to make you acceptable. It’s a healing to make you whole. It’s not the reward for those who got it right. It’s the gift for those who stopped hiding.
The robe is presence. It’s the return of light—not as decoration, but as union. A sign that you no longer live disconnected, but reconnected. Aligned. Safe again.
This is the shift. This is the story behind the ache.
The story of salvation isn’t about escaping punishment. It’s about the light coming back on inside you. And you no longer being afraid to stand in it.
The question still waits
So where are you still hiding?
Where have the fig leaves become so familiar you’ve forgotten they’re not part of you?
And what if, beneath the noise of your day, you could still hear Him asking—not to expose you, but to find you—
“Where are you?”
He’s still walking. Still covering. Still calling you back into the light.
And the light isn’t gone.
It’s waiting to return the moment you stop hiding.
Trevor
