Awakening Light

 

Dedicated to Evalynn, my dear friend. May God bless your journey.


In the stillness of a quiet heart,
A gentle spark begins to grow,
A light that’s new, yet ancient, too,
Like dawn breaking through shadowed snow.

You’ve known the change of body, soul,
The shift from dark to colors true,
But now a deeper call resounds—
A whisper from the One who knew

Your name before the stars were born,
Your path before your steps began.
Now faith, like wings, unfolds within,
Transforming you as only Love can.

A journey bright with sacred grace,
A tender hand that lifts you high.
Your spirit blooms in radiant hues—
A garden kissed by heaven’s sky.

For you are seen, beloved, whole,
As God’s own child, embraced, restored.
This walk of faith, a dance of joy,
Where hope and peace are now your chord.

So rise and live this gift anew,
For you, a song reborn in light.
In every breath, in every step,
You carry love’s eternal might.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Hands Not Held

Image
  In a room where greetings weave,  a gesture extends—a common thread.  Yet her hands, folded, quietly cleave  to the fabric of a past that bled.   For where some see an offer, a sign,  she sees the shadows of a darker play.  Those hands, once weapons, cross a line  that to others seems miles away.   Imagine the hands, not tools of peace,  but of war, that touched without grace,  that stripped the night of any lease  on safety, on a sanctified space.   So, when hands reach out to bridge a gap,  her heart retreats to a fortress old,  built on tremors of a former trap,  lined with stories, silent and cold.   Yet in her strength, a tale unfolds,  not of the hands that caused her fear,  but of the power that she now holds,  to define touch, to hold it dear.   In every greeting she might refuse,  there is a stand, a boundary set.  Her hands are hers to use—or not—  a choice...
Read more

The Gift of Becoming

Image
  God, in wisdom, gave us wheat, not bread, Fruit in seed, not wine in cup, A gift of raw becoming, A chance for hands to shape and souls to rise. So too, in the forge of flesh and bone, My spirit found its art, Sculpted not by ease, But by the flame of truth and fire of scars. Had I been born in perfect form, Unscarred by questions, doubts, and fears, Would I have known this strength within, This tender joy in being whole? No, I am a work unfinished, Carved by trials, smoothed by tears, In every hardship, beauty blooms— In every wound, a life is claimed. You ask if I would trade it all, The twists and turns, the ache, the strain— But in this pain, I learned to live, To break the shell, to birth the name. For living is not merely breath, But dancing on the edge of truth, To stand in light, both fierce and kind, A flame reborn from deepest roots. I do not love the price I paid— The hurt, the loss, the bitter sting— Yet neither do...
Read more