She stands in the timeless now, hands clenched until surrender unfolds her palm. No gift, just an open hand. The Father takes it gently, fingers wrapping hers. Together they step into a space without edges — past and present folded like petals of the same bloom. She offers nothing but herself. He calls it everything. This is not the beginning. This is not the end. This is the beauty of always here.

The scent of almond blossoms stirs memory — of childhood barefoot in orchards, of both beauty and ache. Some moments return willingly, others resist. Yet in each, God’s presence threads through time. Even what we forget, he remembers. Our memories — blessing and burden — become places where the sacred and the familiar meet, calling us home to his love that transcends time, pain and even forgetting.

I sit by the window, alone but not lost, letting questions roam freely. The roses spill from cracks in the path — beauty too much to behold yet impossible to ignore. I think of the dreams and imaginings that once kept me company and wonder if they were glimpses of truths not yet seen. Even in uncertainty, I’m grounded. Even in fear, I long for what is beautifully familiar and fully his.