✨prayer✨
She no longer chases.
She no longer pleads.
What is meant for her now knows where to find her—
drawn in not by desperation,
but by the quiet pull of her becoming.
She has become magnetic.
Not because she performs,
but because she remembers.
And in that remembering, she hums a frequency
that only the true and the purposeful can hear.
Her love is no small river.
It covers valleys—
a balm over broken things,
a warmth over what others would call “sin.”
She doesn’t flinch at the shattered or the sharp.
She tends, she waters, she prays over cracked soil
until groves bloom where others gave up.
Because that’s what she does—
she blossoms.
Even in places that once burned her.
Forgiveness drips from her like honey—
not cheap, not rushed,
but sacred and overflowing,
handed to her daily
by the gentle, wrinkled hands of Wisdom Herself.
This is her prayer cloth.
At first, it was small—
just a square of whispered hope,
stitched with tiny trembling fingers
in the early hours of grief and aching.
But over the years,
as sorrow deepened and wonder widened,
as losses stretched her
and love mended her,
the cloth grew.
She added to it with every lesson,
every answered prayer,
every child she carried in holy womb,
every time she chose softness over spite.
Now, it’s more than a cloth—
it’s a blanket.
A mantle.
Heavy with memory,
rich with sacred threads—
each one dyed with tears, laughter, moonlight, sunlight, rain and healing mud.
She wraps it around her shoulders each morning.
Not as armor,
but as testimony.
It carries the scent of cedar and patchouli,
the hush of riverbanks,
and the warmth of a thousand nights
she survived without anyone knowing the full cost.
And every single day,
the Great Spirit whispers the words
of a noble teacher:
Ask, and it will be given to you.
Seek, and you will find.
Knock, and the door will be opened.
So she asks.
She seeks.
She knocks.
And the world unfolds like a grove in spring—
ripe with answers,
soft with mercy,
and alive with things
that were always hers to receive.
Amen.