I was conceived out of love in a marriage that didn’t last.
And yet, from womb to tomb, I am tethered to Love Himself.
This knowing pulses deeper than the heart can fathom,
Resounding truer than the melodies of the nightingale,
inspiring more verses than the tenderest lovers ever breathed and the hardest heartbreaks ever wept.
Yellow is the eternal bloom of joy that flourishes within my soul.
White is the holy grace of Christ, descending like snow to wash my iniquities.
And peace… ah, peace, its hue eludes the painter’s brush and the poet’s tongue alike;
I find myself settled by mere gratitude for its gentle, deep presence.
Like a cool and enduring stream that has smoothed the rocks through uncounted seasons, so has wisdom gentled me.
The sharp corners of youth have yielded.
The proud angles of self have bowed;
in their place remains a quieter contour,
a form nearer to the hand of Him who fashioned me.
And yet, I remain in faith with fault and failure.
Thus, do I walk onward—not unbroken, but remade;
not unscarred, but sanctified;
bearing in my breast the steady flame of that first and final Love.
In this, the tomb is but a farce;
the end returns as the beginning—a true love story, everlasting.