Aspiring Poet, heartfelt thoughts.I have Just Discovered that I can write

  There are some thoughts that do not begin as words. They begin as a feeling. A weight. A question that refuses to leave. This poem did not begin with a desire to write about the church, sinners, or judgment. It began with a disturbing thought: Why do we fear the smell of someone else's brokenness when we have forgotten the smell of our own? Somewhere along the way, many of us have learned how to clean the outside of the grave while forgetting that we were once buried inside it. We know how to look the part. We know how to say the right things. We know when to stand, when to sit, when to bow our heads, and when to raise our hands. We can wear the clothes. We can speak the language. We can even convince ourselves that we are far away from the darkness we once walked through. But underneath all of it is a truth we do not like to remember: We were all once standing in the same grave. The first thought that came was the image of a grave. Not because I wanted to write...

  "The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit." — Psalm 34:18 There is a kind of grief that few people talk about. People expect you to miss your mom. They expect the tears. They expect the holidays to hurt. They expect you to think of her when you hear a certain song or smell a familiar recipe. What they don't expect is that you lose part of your identity. My mom didn't just love me. She understood me. She knew the parts of me that I never had to explain. She knew when I was hurting before I spoke a word. She knew when I was trying to be strong while quietly falling apart. She knew when to laugh with me, when to challenge me, and when I simply needed someone to sit beside me. Most of all... She knew where I fit. That may sound like a strange thing to say, but when someone knows you that deeply, they become an anchor. You never question whether you belong because, with them, you always did. Then one day...

  “Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts: And see if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.” — Psalm 139:23-24 Where the Thought Began Every poem begins somewhere. Sometimes it begins with joy. Sometimes it begins with inspiration. But sometimes... Sometimes it begins with a battle taking place deep within the soul. The first thought that started this poem was simple: We all have darkness inside of us. Not the darkness we easily see in others. The darkness we refuse to acknowledge in ourselves. The hidden pride. The quiet bitterness. The wounds we cover. The sins we justify. The weaknesses we pretend are not there. It is easy to look across the room and see someone else's failures. It is much harder to stand before God and ask: "Lord, what darkness is hiding within me?" That was the beginning of this poem. Not judgment. Reflection. The First Step: Realizing Every Heart Has a Battle The first...

  "I will say of the LORD, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust." — Psalm 91:2 There are battles people fight that cannot be seen by the human eye. There are storms that leave no bruises on the skin, yet they leave scars upon the soul. There are wars fought quietly behind a smile, behind a handshake, behind the words, "I'm doing okay." This is one of those battles. What I share here is not meant to be a medical explanation of bipolar disorder or a description of every person's experience. It is simply my story—my journey, my struggles, and the lessons God has been teaching me along the way. If my words help someone feel seen or help another person better understand a loved one, then sharing them is worth it. When My Mind Reaches the Heavens There are moments when my mind feels unstoppable. Ideas come faster than I can express them. Energy seems endless. The world feels brighter, and dreams suddenly seem within reach. It can feel like ...

The Church was never meant to be just a building. It was meant to be a family. "And let us consider one another to provoke unto love and to good works: Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together..." — Hebrews 10:24-25 There is a question that has been weighing heavily on my heart: Have we become so busy being the Church that we have forgotten how to love the Church? We live in a world where everyone is overwhelmed. Everyone carries something. Everyone has battles that most people will never see. Yet many people walk through life carrying their burdens alone. Not because there is no one around them... But because no one stopped long enough to notice. The Church Is Not Steeples and Walls Somewhere along the way, we have forgotten what the Church truly is. The Church was never meant to be defined by buildings, stained glass, programs, or a beautiful sanctuary. A building can hold people. But only love can hold a broken heart. "Now ye are the body of ...

  "For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them." — Ephesians 2:10 From the moment we enter this world, people begin trying to define us. They measure us. They compare us. They assign expectations to us. Without realizing it, they build invisible boxes and tell us where we belong, how we should think, how we should act, and what "normal" should look like. But what happens when God creates someone who doesn't fit inside that box? What happens when a person thinks differently, learns differently, or sees the world through a perspective others don't understand? Too often, what is unfamiliar is mistaken for what is wrong. Yet throughout Scripture, God repeatedly chose people who did not fit the world's expectations. Shepherds became kings. Fishermen became apostles. A persecutor became a preacher. God's work has never depended on human definitions of normal. When the World...

 This Grief Has a Pulse This grief has found a heartbeat, It pounds beneath my shattered chest; A slow, relentless echo That grants my weary soul no rest. My mind has learned the bitter truth— Your gentle voice has long since fled; Yet every corner of my heart Still swears you never truly left. The child within still calls your name, Though silver now has crowned my hair; He waits beside an empty door, Convinced you'll somehow meet him there. How long, O Lord, must sorrow burn? How long this weight of flesh and bone? This ache is more than tears can tell— It feels as though my soul has grown Too heavy for this frame alone. I know the grave has sealed its claim, I know these eyes won't see you here; But reason cannot quiet love, Nor silence longing year by year. There are no words to mend this wound, No hand of mine can make it cease; For every breath still whispers, "Mom..." Then breaks beneath the weight of grief. Yet through the valley, dark and d...

  There is a pain that comes from being misunderstood. Not the kind of pain that leaves a bruise you can point to. Not the kind of pain that people can easily see and sympathize with. It is the pain of fighting a battle inside your own mind while the world around you only sees the moments when you struggle. For those living with conditions like bipolar disorder and schizophrenia, there are days when the greatest battle is not just the illness itself. It is being judged by people who do not understand it. People may see the frustration. They may see the confusion. They may see the moments when emotions become overwhelming, when thoughts race faster than they can be controlled, when fear and reality seem to collide. But they do not see the war happening behind the eyes. They do not see the exhaustion of trying to explain something that is almost impossible to put into words. They do not see the prayers whispered in the darkness: "God, please help me make it through today...