One Hundred Roses
Beauty doesn’t ask to be seen. It blooms anyway — wild and unhurried, like roses in the late-May sun. It doesn’t need our applause or attention. But still, it invites. In the curve of a stem, the fall of a petal, God whispers: I am here. And when we let that beauty seep in, we remember who we are. We remember we belong.
The Sacred Familiar
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.