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

  "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...

 There are nights when my own mind becomes a kingdom of shadows, and I find myself walking through corridors no other soul can enter. This is my life with mental illness. To the world, I may appear as though I am simply moving through another day. They see my face. They hear my voice. They see me standing beneath the same sky they stand beneath. But they do not see the storm that follows me. They do not hear the thunder that echoes within my thoughts, nor do they know the strength it takes to rise each morning and face a battle that no eye can witness. My mind, at times, becomes both the battlefield and the enemy. Thoughts creep like whispers in the darkness, and I wrestle with them long after the world has fallen asleep. There are moments when I wonder if anyone truly knows the weight I carry. Not because people do not care. But because there are places in my soul where no human hand can reach. There is only One who sees the whole of me. My Saviour. He sees the tears I ...

I know you will not receive this letter the way you would have when you were here, but maybe this is more for me than it is for you. Maybe it is my heart trying to put into words what has been sitting there quietly for the past year. I miss you. There are so many things I wish I could tell you. So many little moments I would give anything to experience one more time. When I think about you, I remember the late-night lectures — the ones I probably did not appreciate as much as I should have back then. I remember sitting on the stairs, listening to you teach me, guide me, correct me, and shape me. I remember 7th Street in Kingfisher, where our home became my classroom. I remember wishing I could go to a regular school with other kids. At the time, I did not understand why my life was different. I wanted what everyone else seemed to have. But now, looking back with the eyes of someone who has lived more life, I see what I could not see then. I see a mom who had so much to do, so ma...

  There are days when life makes perfect sense. The sun is shining. The bills are paid. The people we love are gathered close. Our prayers seem to rise straight to Heaven and come back wrapped in peace. On those days, "Hallelujah" rolls off the tongue with ease. Then there are the other days. Days when shadows linger longer than they should. Days when the doctor's report brings more questions than answers. Days when grief sits beside us at the table and refuses to leave. Days when our minds become tangled in a thousand thoughts, trying to understand what cannot be understood. Those are the days that teach us what Hallelujah really means. The human mind is a remarkable thing. It searches for reasons. It wants explanations. It wants every loose end tied neatly into a bow. We look at the world and try to separate everything into categories: good and bad, victory and defeat, blessing and sorrow. Yet life rarely cooperates with our neat little boxes. Sometimes joy and sorrow s...

The house still remembers her. Not in a way I can prove, not in anything I can point to and explain cleanly, but in the quiet way a place changes when someone who shaped it is no longer walking through it. It is my father’s house, and he still lives there, but it is not the same home it once was. I go to see my dad. But I still go to see her too. And both of those things are true every time I pull into the driveway. The couch is still there. The rooms still hold the arrangement of her life, even if no one says it out loud anymore. Nothing has been dramatically changed, but everything feels permanently altered. Like the house is still learning how to exist without the one who made it feel complete. When I step inside, my eyes still do the same thing first—they look for her. Not because I expect her to be there, but because love does not stop searching just because it has been told the answer. My dad is there. That matters more than I can say. He is still in the house, still holding on t...