The Quiet Cry That Reaches God

The Quiet Cry That Reaches God

Her name was Tilly—softly spoken, barely remembered, like the echo of wind through a forgotten alley. She moved through life like a shadow, eyes down, shoulders curled inward, as if the world had already decided she didn’t belong. Growing up in a house of silence—where love wasn’t absent because it was lost, but because it was never placed there—Tilly learned early that tears didn’t summon comfort. Her parents were ghosts in their own lives, too numb or too busy to see the child shrinking behind books and closed bedroom doors.

She wasn’t abused, not in the way people write about. No bruises marked her skin. But neglect wears another face—one of empty glances, birthdays forgotten, achievements unnoticed. She was there, but never seen. And when you’re unseen long enough, you start to believe you don’t exist.

At sixteen, she tried to scream into existence. She wore tighter clothes, laughed too loud, flirted with boys whose eyes turned hungry the moment they looked at her. One of them said "I love you" beneath the bleachers, his breath warm and sour with soda. She believed him. She needed to. But when he touched her—his hands too rough, his promises too light—she realized he didn’t love her. He loved the shape of her, the access to her. When it was over, she walked home in the rain, her blouse half-undone, and sat on the bathroom floor, scrubbing her skin raw.

Even her own brother turned away. He knew—he knew—but stayed silent. Where was protection? Where was justice? She wasn’t a child anymore, but life had not taught her how to be a woman—only how to survive.

In adulthood, she carried the wounds like hidden stones in her pockets. Relationships shattered before they began. Trust was a bridge she couldn’t bring herself to cross. She worked as a library clerk, a job that demanded little and gave her corners to disappear into. She started drinking—not to celebrate, but to dissolve. To forget the ache of being unlovable.

But one winter night, with snow falling like ash outside her tiny apartment window, she found herself on her knees beside the bed, not praying, just breaking. Words wouldn’t come. Her throat clenched shut. Tears fell silently onto her trembling hands. She couldn’t speak her pain. She didn’t even know where to begin. God, she thought, if You’re there… I can’t do this anymore.

It wasn’t eloquent. It wasn’t even a prayer. It was a gasp. A groan. A silent surrender in the dark.

And yet—it reached Him.

Because God does not measure prayers by volume. He does not require performance. He does not stand at the door of heaven with a clipboard, checking off “perfect grammar” or “loud Amens.” No—He leans close when the heart breaks. He listens to the noiseless cries, the ones that live beneath the surface, too deep for language.

In the days that followed, something shifted. Not dramatically. Not with lightning or voices from the sky. But with a quiet nudge: she picked up a Bible someone had left at the library. She opened it, not because she believed, but because she had nothing else.

She read about Hannah, the woman who stood before the Lord at Shiloh, her lips moving but no sound coming out. The priest accused her of drunkenness—but God saw her. He heard her silent plea. And because of that quiet cry, Samuel was born. A deliverer. A prophet.

Tilly wept.

She read Romans 8:26: "In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans."

Wordless groans. That was her. That had always been her.

And God had heard.

Slowly, quietly, she began to meet with Him. Not in grand cathedrals, but in the hush of early mornings, Bible open on her lap, tea cooling beside her. She didn’t speak much. Sometimes she just sat. But she believed—He was there. And in that stillness, healing began.

It wasn’t fast. Old wounds don’t vanish with a single prayer. But the shame started to loosen its grip. The voices in her head—unloved, unwanted, dirty—were met now with a softer, stronger whisper: "You are Mine."

She began to set boundaries. To walk away from men who only wanted a body, not a soul. She reconnected with a counselor, started unpacking the pain with professional care, grounded now in something unshakable—her identity in God.

And one day, as she stood before a mirror, really looked at herself—eyes clear, breath steady—she whispered, “I am not what they made me.”

She began volunteering at a shelter for young women escaping abuse. She didn’t speak much at first. But when a trembling girl sat in the corner, silent and guarded, Tilly would sit beside her, hand gently placed on her back.

No words. Just presence.

Because she knew now—the quiet cry reaches God. And when God answers, He doesn’t just rescue. He restores. He redeems. He turns silence into testimony, pain into purpose.

Tilly still doesn’t shout. She doesn’t need to.

Her heart speaks loud enough.

And Heaven has always been listening.

The Stuck Splinter ( Short story )

The Splinter

The splinter had lodged itself deep, not just in her finger, but in the marrow of her soul. For years, it festered in silence, a tiny intruder that refused to budge. She had felt its presence in every heartbeat—a sharp, constant reminder of the day it entered her life. It began as a careless jab, a thorn from a rose she’d plucked in a garden of broken promises. Back then, she’d been a child, innocent and trusting, believing love was a shelter, not a battlefield.

Her parents’ voices still echoed in the hollows of her memory—sharp, dismissive, vanishing like shadows at dawn. “We’re too busy for your tears,” they’d said. “Grow up.” So she had, but not in ways the world expected. She learned to love fiercely, to cling to those who might abandon her, to build her world around the fear that she was unlovable. The splinter, metaphor and reality, became her constant companion. She tried to pry it out with her own strength once—childish tweezers, frantic prayers under her breath—but only managed to drive it deeper.

For years, she cycled through relationships, jobs, even cities, chasing a cure that never came. The splinter taught her the language of pain: how to mask it with laughter, how to let it harden into a granuloma of numbness. Yet beneath the surface, it festered. Pus bloomed as panic attacks; redness flared in her eyes when someone said, “You’re too much.” She felt the weight of an abscess forming, a rot that could one day swallow her whole.

Then, one night, she collapsed in her kitchen, the light from a chipped nail revealing the splinter’s true depth. It was lodged beneath the moonlit curve of her thumb, its edges jagged, its hold ironclad. She wept—not for the pain, but for the aching truth: I cannot do this alone.

“God,” she whispered, her voice a cracked leaf in the wind. “If You are real, show me how to let this go.”

The nights that followed were a series of small surrenders. She picked up a Bible, its pages dusty with disuse, and read of a God who tended wounds not with tweezers, but with mercy. She prayed not for a quick fix, but for the courage to press into the hurt, to let the Holy Spirit be the surgeon’s hand. It hurt—oh, how it hurt—to face the raw places, to dissect the lies she’d believed for decades. But with each prayer, the splinter’s grip loosened.

One morning, as sunlight pooled on her skin, she saw it: the splinter, curled and silver, curling its way to the surface at last. With trembling hands, she sterilized a needle, not as a self-rescuer, but as a partner with the Healer who’d walked this path before. The sting was brief. The relief, eternal.

Now, her thumb bears a faint scar—a testament to the battle and the victory. She still feels the phantom ache sometimes, a reminder of how deeply she was once broken. But when it comes, she smiles through the memory and whispers, “You’ve already healed me.”

The splinter is gone. Its song, once one of despair, has become a hymn of liberation. And in the freedom, she’s learning a new truth: she is lovable, not because the world says so, but because the Lover of her soul has already declared it.

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” —Philippians 4:13

In this story, the splinter becomes both metaphor and mirror, reflecting the journey from self-abandonment to divine embrace. Just as a physical splinter demands care—whether by the body’s own healing or a doctor’s hand—the soul’s wounds require attention, often through surrender to a power greater than ourselves. The infection? It is the world’s unlove, which only the Author of Life can undo. Keep pressing forward. Freedom is near.

"The Backyard" (Short story )

"The Backyard"

The sun dipped low beyond the rooftops, painting the sky in slow strokes of amber and violet. From the front of the house, the world buzzed—children laughing, engines turning over, neighbors calling out across driveways. But in the backyard, there was only stillness. A hush, like the breath held between heartbeats.

She sat on the sun-warmed stone step, her bare feet brushing the edges of clover that crept through cracks in the pavement. The gate behind her was latched, rusted shut with disuse. No one came back here. Not anymore. Not since before.

To her, the backyard wasn’t just a patch of grass and a splintered fence. It was sanctuary. The only place where the weight of the world didn’t press so hard against her chest.

She had lived through voices sharp as broken glass—words flung like stones: Useless. Too much. Not enough. She had worn smiles like masks, handed out love like change from her pocket, only to be left empty, hollowed out by people who took and never stayed.

And so she retreated.

Here, in the quiet, she didn’t have to perform. She didn’t have to answer questions, or pretend she was fine, or explain why her eyes sometimes welled with tears when someone said “I care” too loud. The backyard never lied. It didn’t promise sunshine and then rain on her parade. It just was. Quiet. Unassuming. Safe.

The fence—the tall, weathered wooden fence—surrounded her like arms. It blocked the world. Blocked the stares. Blocked the memories that lived in the front yard: the shouting matches behind screen doors, the judgment in the eyes of people passing by, the way little kids would point when she stood too still for too long on the sidewalk.

You don’t belong, the world had whispered.

And so, she believed it.

But something had begun to stir.

It started small—like a rustle behind her ribs. A whisper, older than pain: You were made for more than hiding.

It came on nights when she opened her worn Bible, pages dog-eared at Psalms, at Isaiah. "Even there Your hand will lead me," she’d read aloud, voice trembling. "And Your right hand will hold me."

But the words felt distant—beautiful, yes, but echoing from beyond the fence.

If I want Him… I have to leave.

The thought terrified her.

The front yard was exposure. It was noise. It was risk.

But one morning—after a dream where she was flying over rooftops, bare feet skimming the treetops—she stood at the back gate and placed her palm against the latch.

Her breath came fast. Her hands shook.

God… if You're real… if You're near… help me.

She unlatched it.

The hinge groaned, protesting after years of silence.

One foot forward.

Then another.

The grass crunched under her soles—different here. Drier. The air smelled of gasoline and blooming crepe myrtle. Cars passed. A dog barked. A child on a bike wobbled by, helmet too big, laughing as he corrected his balance.

She stopped at the edge of the front lawn and looked around—really looked.

There were mothers on porches with lemonade and books. Old men in lawn chairs, nodding sleepily in the sun. A girl skipping rope, singing a song that tangled with the breeze. A boy tossed a ball to nobody in particular. Waiting, maybe. Hoping someone would catch it.

No one noticed her.

And yet—she saw them.

And in that seeing, she was seen.

Not judged. Not used.

Just… there.

She took another step. Then another.

She stood at the edge of the sidewalk now, her shadow stretching long in the evening light.

I made it, she thought.

I’m in the front yard.

And though her heart pulsed like a trapped bird, though her fingers clenched into fists at her sides, she didn't turn back.

Because for the first time, freedom didn’t look like escape.

It looked like connection.

It looked like a boy turning, catching sight of her, and smiling.

“Hey,” he said. “You live here?”

She nodded, throat too tight to speak.

“Cool. Want to play catch?”

She hesitated. Looked back once—toward the quiet, the safety, the silence of the backyard.

Then she stepped forward.

“Okay,” she whispered.

And took the ball.

She still visits the backyard.

Sits on the step when the world feels loud.

But now, when she leaves, the gate stays unlatched.

And sometimes, when the sun is just right, you can see her on the front porch—laughing, holding a cup of coffee, her Bible open on her lap—

no longer hiding.

Just living.

Just free.

Let’s Normalize Telling the Truth—Even When It’s Hard

Let’s Normalize Telling the Truth—Even When It’s Hard

In a world where filters dominate not just our photos, but our personalities, relationships, and life narratives, truth feels like a radical act.

Scroll through any social media feed, and you’ll see curated highlight reels: the perfect vacation, the flawless skin, the #blessed life. But behind the filters and captions, many of us are struggling—lonely, anxious, pretending. We wear masks so long we forget what we look like without them.

It’s time to stop performing.

It’s time to normalize telling the truth—not just the factual kind, but the deeper, soul-level truth of who we really are.

The Culture of Performance

Let’s be honest: social media has made dishonesty a habit. Not because we’re all malicious liars, but because we’ve been conditioned to believe that we’re only worthy of love, attention, and belonging when we look successful, happy, and put-together.

But everything is a lie when we only show the shine and hide the struggle.

Psychologists on Medium and Psychology Today point out that this constant performance erodes our mental health and damages real connection. We’re not just hiding our flaws—we’re disconnecting from ourselves. We become actors in our own lives, afraid to step out of character.

And yet, the most powerful thing you can offer another human being?

Your truth.

Radical Honesty with Radical Empathy

Normalizing truth-telling isn’t about weaponizing honesty or blurting out harsh realities under the guise of “I’m just being real.” That’s not integrity—that’s cruelty.

True honesty is radical because it requires courage. It means being authentic in your self-expression, owning your feelings, and communicating your intentions—even when it’s uncomfortable.

But it also requires empathy.

That’s where the wisdom of the “white lie” comes in—not as a way to avoid truth, but as a compassionate choice to protect someone’s dignity or maintain harmony in a moment that doesn’t require full disclosure. The key is intention: Are you lying to avoid pain… or to spare someone else’s?

As the saying goes: Be honest, but don’t be an asshole.

True connection doesn’t come from brutal honesty—it comes from vulnerability.

And vulnerability is not oversharing. It’s choosing to show up real, to say, “This is how I feel. This is where I’m at. I’m not okay, and that’s okay.”

That’s where real relationships grow.

What Faith Teaches Us About Truth

Long before psychology caught up, faith traditions have been screaming from the mountaintops: Truth matters.

In the Bible, honesty isn’t just a nice virtue—it’s a divine command. Scripture doesn’t tiptoe around lies. It calls them what they are: detestable to God.

“The Lord detests lying lips, but he delights in people who are trustworthy.”

— Proverbs 12:22

Truth isn’t optional for the believer—it’s foundational. We’re told directly:

“Each of you must put off falsehood and speak truthfully to your neighbor, for we are all members of one body.”

— Ephesians 4:25

We are interconnected. When one person lies, the whole community suffers. Trust erodes. Unity fractures.

But there’s another layer: truth in love.

“Instead, speaking the truth in love, we will grow to become in every respect the mature body of him who is the head, that is, Christ.”

— Ephesians 4:15

Christian maturity isn’t just about knowing doctrine. It’s about learning to speak truth with love—to build others up, not tear them down. Because truth without love is just noise. But truth with love? That heals.

And let’s not forget: Jesus called Satan the father of lies.

“He was a murderer from the beginning, not holding to the truth, for there is no truth in him. When he lies, he speaks his native language…”

— John 8:44

In this spiritual framework, lying isn’t just a mistake—it’s aligning with darkness. Truth, on the other hand, reflects the very nature of God.

The Courage to Live in Your Truth

Normalizing truth-telling starts with you.

It starts with:

Admitting when you’re not okay.

Owning your mistakes instead of deflecting.

Saying “I don’t know” instead of pretending.

Choosing authenticity over approval.

It means resisting the urge to craft a perfect image and instead asking: “Who am I when no one is watching?”

Living in your truth doesn’t mean you say everything you think. It means you stop betraying yourself to please others.

It means:

Speaking honestly about your boundaries.

Honoring your values, even when it’s unpopular.

Letting go of the fear of judgment.

Yes, it’s risky. But as Brené Brown says, “Vulnerability is not winning or losing. It’s having the courage to show up when you can’t control the outcome.”

And that’s where real connection begins.

Truth Builds, Lies Destroy

Lies—big or small—chip away at trust. At relationships. At your own sense of self.

But truth?

Truth sets boundaries. Truth deepens intimacy. Truth fosters integrity. Truth brings freedom.

When we choose truth—not as a weapon, but as a witness—we reflect something sacred. We become people others can count on. We create spaces where others feel safe to be real, too.

So let’s normalize it.

Let’s normalize saying:

“I’m struggling.”

“I was wrong.”

“I need help.”

“This is how I really feel.”

Let’s stop pretending and start connecting.

Because the world doesn’t need more perfection.

It needs you—raw, real, and unafraid to tell the truth.

Final Thought:

In a culture obsessed with image, the bravest thing you can be is honest.

Not just with others—but with yourself.

Let that courage start today.

Speak your truth. Live your truth.

And watch how the right people stay.

The Two Realms of the Mind: Choosing Between Dust and Destiny

The Two Realms of the Mind: Choosing Between Dust and Destiny

In the quiet moments of life, when the clamor of daily chores and ambitions fades, a subtle question emerges: What is my truest desire? The biblical contrast between the "carnal mind" and the "spiritual mind" offers a profound answer—a choice between two paths, two masteries, and two destinies. As Romans 8:6 declares, "For the mind set on the flesh is death, but the mind set on the Spirit is life and peace." This is not merely a theological abstraction; it is a daily battleground where our focus determines our soul's fate.

The Carnal Mind: A Symphony of Shadows

Imagine a traveler lured by the neon glow of a city at night. Its lights promise satisfaction—pleasure, power, comfort—but the deeper one wanders, the more the vibrant hues fade to neon’s sterile artificiality. The carnal mind operates similarly: it is a realm ruled by immediacy. It fixates on the tangible—bigger homes, fleeting thrills, the raw pull of survival, and the whispers of self-importance. It is not inherently evil but is hostile to God in its unyielding focus on self. The Apostle Paul describes it as a mind that cannot submit to God’s law, for its instincts are self-protective, self-seeking, and self-justifying (Romans 8:7).

The carnal mind divides. It fosters tribes of “those who want to be enriched” (1 Timothy 6:5) rather than communities of love. It mistakes the cistern for the ocean, finding solace in temporary gains that evaporate like morning dew. The outcome? A gnawing emptiness, a spiritual death not of the body but of the soul’s vitality. The world shouts promises of peace, yet the carnal heart knows only a restless, unslaked thirst.

The Spiritual Mind: A Dance of Light

Now picture another path: a traveler guided not by neon but by starlight. The air is still, and each step is taken in rhythm with a deeper song. The spiritual mind hears this song from the Holy Spirit. It does not reject the physical world but transcends it by seeking the eternal. Its focus is not how to get more but how to honor God—to align desires with His will, to trade the noise of self for the quiet of surrender.

This mindset is alive with paradox: It finds strength in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9), security in trust, and joy in sacrifice. The spiritual mind is marked by submissiveness—not passivity, but active reliance on God’s power rather than the illusions of self-made kingdoms. It is the mind that prays instead of panics, studies Scripture instead of chasing trends, and seeks to bless others even at personal cost. Its outcomes are not merely peace, but a deep, abiding shalom that “transcends all understanding” (Philippians 4:7)—a wholeness that the carnal mind can neither comprehend nor counterfeit.

The War Within: A Call to Attention

The tension between these two minds is not a sign of moral failure but of the human condition reborn. Every believer wrestles with the pull of “flesh” and “Spirit” (Galatians 5:17). The key lies in focus: to “set your mind on the things above” (Colossians 3:2) is to realign the compass of the soul. The carnal mind is not conquered through sheer willpower but through daily surrender—a practice of letting the Spirit reshape desires (2 Corinthians 5:17).

Consider this: when a mirage lures a hiker, the mistake is not in seeing the illusion but in believing it can quench the thirst. The spiritual mind learns to see the mirage and keep walking toward the river. It is a discipline of noticing. Noticing when “self” rises to demand, and gently redirecting the heart to worship. Noticing when earthly gains dim in comparison to the weight of glory (2 Corinthians 4:17).

Conclusion: The Choice That Gives Life

Romans 8:6 is not just a theological statement but an invitation. The carnal mind offers a counterfeit life—temporary, fragmented, and ultimately empty. The spiritual mind offers a true life, a participation in God’s eternal purposes, marked by peace that survives life’s storms. The Institute for Creation Research, rooted in biblical truth, echoes this ancient wisdom: our mindset shapes our connection to the Divine.

In the end, the question is simple: Will you dwell in the dust of fleeting desires, or will you rise with the Spirit to the destiny of stars? The answer is not in a single moment of conversion, but in the thousand tiny choices every day to set the mind on the Spirit. For in that choice lies the beginning of eternity.

How a Blank Canvas Gave Me Back My Life

How a Blank Canvas Gave Me Back My Life

There was a time when sleep was a distant memory—when the silence of my bedroom after my husband’s passing echoed louder than any sound I’d ever known. I used to find solace in words. Writing was my anchor, reading my escape. But grief doesn’t care about your passions. It sweeps in like a storm and strips you bare, leaving behind a hollowed-out version of who you once were. I lost my love for writing. I lost my voice. I even lost the will to try.

Nights stretched endlessly, my mind racing with sorrow and what-ifs. I knew I couldn’t go on like that—emotionally, physically, spiritually. So one sleepless night, in a moment of desperation, I picked up a paintbrush. Not because I thought I’d be good at it. Not because I had any grand vision. But because I needed something to quiet the noise in my head.

That first stroke on canvas was clumsy, uncertain. But something shifted. With each color I mixed, each shape I created, I wasn’t trying to fix my grief—I was learning to live alongside it. Painting didn’t bring my husband back, but it gave me back myself. Slowly, I began to rediscover who I was outside of loss, outside of love, outside of the life that once defined me.

I wasn’t looking to become an artist. I just wanted to survive the night. But in the quiet rhythm of brush on canvas, I found mindfulness. In the explosion of color, I found expression. In the act of creating, I found healing.

This is the power of painting—not as a performance, but as a passage. It’s not about talent or technique; it’s about showing up for yourself, even when you’re broken. And as I’ve come to learn, the people who paint aren’t just called artists—they’re the quiet rebels of resilience, the seekers of peace, the ones who transform pain into beauty, one brushstroke at a time.

This is my story of how creativity became my lifeline—and how, in learning to paint, I finally learned how to breathe again.

"In the Garden of Us"

"In the Garden of Us"

I am a wild rose with thorns, unseen,

rooted in soil where storms once grew,

my branches reaching toward the sun,

yet curled in the shadow of the crowd.

Lord, my breath is a whispered prayer:

“Let me bloom where the gardeners take root,

where the soil is fertile, and the hands are kind,

not a field of judgment, but a home I can trust.”

They see the cracks in my quiet shell,

the fractures where light once tried to enter,

and name me broken, a relic left in the earth—

but You, O Love, know the map of my scars,

how each ache is a river leading home,

how my heart, though unspoken, is yours.

I’ve carried the weight of “other” for miles,

a ghost in the chorus of laughter and kin,

my voice a breath when the world demands song.

Yet in every crowd, I am a question mark,

a girl who learned to wear invisibility

as a cloak, a shield, a second skin.

But here, in the hush of holy ground,

where You write on my palms with a lover’s ink,

I learn to belong—not to a place,

but to the stillness where I am whole.

Your arms are the first table I’ve known,

where the broken bread is always mine.

Still, I ache for the human dance,

for hands that hold my shyness as sacred,

for communities where my quiet makes space,

not an excuse to turn away.

Not the flawed child, but the woman who grieves,

who loves in the language of roots, not sound.

Maybe the world will always be a puzzle

where my pieces fit a little lopsided.

But You, who knit me from midnight and dew,

say, “This is where I have placed you—

in the wildness of not-yet-understood,

in the hush where my heartbeat answers yours.”

So I’ll keep reaching, my thorns tucked close,

growing toward the light of the One who planted me.

And when the gardeners finally see my name,

they’ll read it in the lines of my grace—

“She belonged all along,” the wind will say,

“though she waited to find her place.”

The Mosaic of Belonging

The Mosaic of Belonging

Deep in the quiet hours, when the weight of the world settles like dust on my shoulders, I find myself whispering the same prayer: “God, help me belong.” Not to a place, not to a perfect, polished crowd—but to a community that sees the fractured light in my cracks and calls it holy.

I’ve spent years navigating life as a half-solved puzzle. In my biological family, I was the quiet kid with a mind that wandered too far, a heart that ached too much. They called me weird, a word that still stings like a paper cut. I learned to shrink, to hide the tremors of trauma beneath a smile, to armor my flaws like shields. But armor is heavy, and it never fits quite right.

Yet, in the stillness of my faith, I’ve learned this: God doesn’t make mistakes. He takes broken pieces and weaves them into mosaics. My scars, my sensitivity, my stubborn yearning for connection—they are not defects. They are the brushstrokes of a story He is painting, even when I can’t see the frame.

Still, there’s a longing that faith doesn’t fully quench—a hunger to fit. To sit at a table where laughter flows freely, to be invited into inside jokes without overanalyzing if I’m “enough.” To exist without the shadow of “flawed” trailing behind me. I worry that my trauma is a storm others can’t brave, that my heart—a well of love, but also of buried fears—is too much to navigate.

But maybe belonging isn’t about fitting into a mold. Maybe it’s about finding those who trade judgment for curiosity, who see the quiet girl and ask, “What makes you light up?” rather than “Why are you so reserved?” Maybe it’s about building communities where we’re not required to wear masks, but rather share our scars like passports to a deeper truth: We are all works in progress.

I belong to God, yes—the anthem of my soul echoes that truth. But earthly belonging is a different kind of ache, one that demands courage. It’s showing up, cracked and hopeful, and daring to believe that some people will stay when they see the pieces of me. That there are groups, perhaps churches, friendships, or circles of strangers turned kindred, where our brokenness isn’t polished away but held up to the light, recognized as part of the mosaic.

And so I keep walking this journey, trauma and hope entwined in my fists. I pray for the audacity to gather my fragments and offer them to others, trusting that some will say, “I see your light. It matters here.” Until then, I’ll linger in the sacred in-between—the belonging I already have in God, and the one still unfolding, one authentic connection at a time.

Because maybe, just maybe, the world needs my mosaic. Not to blend in, but to remind someone else that their cracks, too, are where the light escapes.

definition of a mosaic

A mosaic (/moʊˈzeɪɪk/) is a pattern or image made of small regular or irregular pieces of colored stone, glass or ceramic, held in place by plaster/mortar, and covering a surface. Mosaics are often used as floor and wall decoration, and were particularly popular in the Ancient Roman world.

From Sun Up to Sun Down

From Sun Up to Sun Down

The morning light slips through the cracked edge of the bedroom curtain—thin, golden, insistent. It lands across the pillow beside mine, the one that still holds the ghost of his shape. I watch it there, just lying still, not daring to touch it. Sun up. Another day. Another war.

I don’t remember the last time I looked in the mirror and saw myself. I see shadows beneath eyes that used to carry laughter. I see hands that used to reach for his, now always folding into themselves, gripping nothing. Sixteen months since he left. Sixteen months of breathing without music, loving without audience, existing without witness.

They say grief comes in waves, but this feels more like a drought. A slow, relentless pulling away of everything wet and warm inside me until I’m just dust and echo. From sun up to sun down, I move through rituals. Coffee. Shower. Walk. Laundry. Repeat. It’s not living—just endurance dressed in routine.

There was a time—just a few years ago—when I believed love was for other people. That I was built wrong for it. Too sharp. Too quiet. Too much past. Then he came. Not handsome in the way magazines praise, but kind in a way that made the world softer. He’d hum off-key while fixing the sink. Leave little notes in my coat pockets: "Don’t forget your umbrella. I love you." He’d hold my hand when I cried, not trying to fix it, just saying, "I’m here. I’m here."

We met late. I thought I was too old to be discovered, too broken to be chosen. But he saw me. Not fixed me—saw me. And for the first time in my 58 years, I let someone love me. Really love me. And I—finally—let myself love back.

And then, three years in, his heart betrayed him. Just like that. One minute laughing at a dumb cat video, the next, gone. No time for last words. No time to say I’m sorry I didn’t lean into you sooner. I’m sorry I held back when I was afraid to need you too much.

I wait for guilt to fade. It hasn’t. Sometimes I lie awake thinking, What if I had noticed the fatigue sooner? What if I had made him go to the doctor that week? What if I had held him tighter that last morning?

But there is no “what if” in death. Only what is.

From sun up to sun down, I pray. Not the polished prayers from church. The raw, gasping kind. The kind that come out like sobs flung at the sky. "God, I can’t do this. Help me do this. I don’t want to be strong. I just want to feel close to him again. Let me hear his voice. Let me feel his hand."

And sometimes—on the best days—I do. In the hush between breaths. In the sudden warmth of sunlight on my skin. In the bluebirds that visit the feeder he hung. I say, "That’s you, isn’t it? That’s you saying I’m still here with you."

People offer help. Meals, hugs, casseroles wrapped in foil like hope. They say, "You’re so strong." But I’m not. I’m hanging by a thread. Every morning, I wake up and make a choice: I will breathe today. I will walk outside. I will speak to someone. I will not call the crisis line—today.

Because from sun up to sun down is all I can promise. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Just today.

I used to think love was something you gave. Now I know—it’s something you receive. And he gave me love like a gift I never knew how to unwrap until it was too late. And now, the greatest act of love I can offer is to stay. To keep walking. To whisper "thank you" through tears when the sunrise blazes anyway.

I miss him in every bone. I miss him in the quiet. I miss him in the way my coffee tastes bitter now, like nothing has flavor without his laughter filling the room.

But I am still here.

And if being here is the only thing I have to give—if showing up each morning, even when my soul feels flayed open, is my offering—then I will give that.

From sun up to sun down.

That’s all I’ve got.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s enough.

Not for the world.

But for him.

And for God.

And for me.