The Gift of Becoming

 

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 I wish away
The road that led me to this spring.
For in this journey, I have found
A life that’s mine, a voice, a song,
A purpose woven deep and strong—
I would not trade this truth for ease.
So here I stand, alive, aware,
Each scar a thread, each tear a prayer,
Not broken, no—transformed, remade—
A soul that’s lived, a self reclaimed.

 


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