Her Words Found Me 📝

It was late morning.

The sun was humming low,

and my hands were sunk deep in the belly of the garden—

pulling weeds, loosening roots,

tending the Earth like a friend who tells the truth soft.

I wasn’t looking for anything but breath and dirt.

But she found me.

Something hard beneath the soil,

not stone, not root—

but shaped, carved, placed.

A small box,

clay and wood,

held together by time and something older than time.

I brushed her clean like an old memory.

Opened her like a prayer.

And there inside, wrapped in river-colored cloth,

was a scroll.

It didn’t crack or crumble.

It breathed.

And these were her words:

⸻

The Stillness Told Me

I did not find God in the temples.

Nor in the thick-tongued sermons of men.

I found Her

in the hush between crickets,

in the slow sigh of moss after rain,

in the way the wind wrapped itself around my wrist

like a promise I never needed to speak.

I did not ask for revelation.

I was too tired for seeking.

Too tender for climbing ladders made of light.

So I sat.

Still.

And the stillness told me everything.

The Earth spoke like an old friend:

soft, slow, never in a rush.

She told me I was made of the same dust

that kissed the bones of the first woman.

She said:

“You don’t have to go anywhere to know God —

just be here long enough to remember.”

I felt the Holy in the breath of the bayou,

in the slick mud curling around my ankles,

in the heartbeat of frogs and foxes and ferns

who never once forgot who they were.

I saw God in the veined hands of old women

shelling peas in rocking chairs.

In the quiet mouths of children

who didn’t yet need words to understand joy.

In the calloused fingers of men

who never said “I love you,”

but built porches anyway.

The trees never preached.

They just stood —

tall, rooted, unapologetic.

And I learned from them

that I could do the same.

I did not need a reason to be sacred.

I only needed to belong.

And I did.

To the dirt.

To the dusk.

To the creatures who stared at me like kin.

To the sky that opened its arms

even when I was wild,

even when I was weary.

So if you find this —

folded soft in a cedar box

or caught in the mouth of a river —

know this:

I loved God with my whole body.

Not with striving,

but with stillness.

Not in shouting,

but in becoming.

I came from stardust.

But the dust,

the dirt,

the bayou herself

is where I heard Her best.

And in every leaf,

every breath,

every quiet creature,

She spoke.

And I, finally,

listened.

⸻

I folded it back with shaking hands.

Not out of fear—

but reverence.

The garden was still.

The sky was watching.

And the wind whispered through the trees like it knew her name.

Maybe I didn’t find the box.

Maybe the box

found me.

She Walks with Me 🦶🏽

✨A letter from God✨

She doesn’t ask for the whole path anymore.

She’s stopped trying to chase the stars or wrestle time into answers.

Now, she just breathes — slow and wide —

and lets the hush between steps carry her forward.

She was not sent here to conquer or explain.

She was sent to feel.

To love without armor.

To remember Me in the way sunlight filters through the moss

and the way wind braids itself into her hair.

And oh, how she remembers.

I see her placing her palms on tree bark like prayer,

letting the old ones speak through the grain.

She walks among the mushrooms and ferns like she belongs —

because she does.

She hums with the river, weeps with the sky,

and listens with the kind of silence that only comes from being known.

She sees Me.

In the cypress knees rising from muddy water like knuckles folded in blessing.

In the wild green veins of every leaf —

lungs still breathing the first breath I ever gave.

In the dirt-stained soles of children running free,

and in the calloused hands of men who still build with heart.

She sees Me in the rocking of old women whose eyes have turned soft with knowing.

In raccoons playing, and owls waiting, and spiders spinning moonlit prayers.

She sees Me where most have forgotten to look —

in the stillness, in the joy, in the undone places.

This world was never meant to be subdued by her —

it was meant to dance with her.

To cradle her.

To teach her how to return to herself.

She walks slow now.

She lets go more often.

She lays her burdens down by the roots and lets the soil hold what she no longer needs.

And when she looks at the mountains,

she sees the face of the Mother.

When she presses her fingers to a leaf,

she feels the pulse of creation.

She doesn’t say My name out loud much anymore —

not because she’s forgotten it,

but because she’s living it.

Every step she takes — soft, holy, unafraid —

is a prayer I receive.

She is not lost.

She is not behind.

She is not too much or not enough.

She is walking with Me.

And in every next step,

I meet her.