Apr 9
There are paths you don’t choose
but find yourself on,
waking one day to realize
you’ve left the voice that once
called you home.
There are people—
beautiful, bruised,
who touched the hem of healing
and stepped back
as if love would demand too much.
And I wonder how God handles
the slow disaster
of the almost-return.
The ones who knew,
who felt,
who started to lean in—
but didn’t.
Does He grieve
like a father who watches
his child walk past the open door,
too ashamed to knock?
Or does He simply wait—
unmoving,
unchanged,
burning with a stillness
only eternity understands?
Because I still ache
in the temporary.
I still hold their names
in my prayers
like broken glass
pressed into palms
that would have held them whole.
God help me
