✨remembering✨
She was never an afterthought.
Not a companion cast in soft light,
not a shadow to strength,
not an echo to someone else’s call.
Not a sidekick. Not the weaker vessel.
She was never help like a handmaid.
She was help like a hurricane.
Like thunder rolling in before the sky knew it was changing.
Like a mother lifting a car off her child.
Like the creek rising up when no one listened to the land.
When the old texts said “God is our help,”
they used Ezer.
Same word.
Same power.
Same fire in the belly.
Ezer means “helper,” they say—
but not the kind who fetches tools
or follows behind.
Ezer … the same word used for the Divine
when the cry went up from the battlefield—
not meek assistance,
but wild deliverance.
A force. A flood.
A holy intervention.
She was not carved from his side.
She was not shaped from submission.
She was birthed from the belly of Earth,
cradled in clay and storm.
Breathed into being
by the rhythm of the rain.
She rose where roots tangled deep—
wild, watching, wise.
Ezer is the holy defiance
woven into the first breath.
The voice that speaks
even when silenced.
The truth that rises
even when forgotten.
She was not made from a man’s body.
She was not a rib to be tucked under.
She was birthed whole—
from Earth, from the deep.
The womb of the world remembered her name
before she ever learned it herself.
She was midwifed by wind,
washed in bayou water,
anointed in the silence between thunderclaps.
She grew under cypress knees and Spanish moss,
learning to listen to the things people forgot to honor—
tadpoles, tree roots, the stories of stones.
The wind spoke her truths back to her
when no one else would.
She is not here to shrink.
She is not here to be good in the way they define good—
silent, smiling, small.
She is here to carry the medicine.
To be the voice at the river’s bend.
To remind the land it is holy.
To remind the women they are, too.
She is the cracked-open ground after rain.
She is the hush after the scream.
The peace that doesn’t require permission.
The fire that doesn’t need applause.
Ezer is not sweet compliance.
She is fierce tenderness.
She is the balance of a mother
who says enough—and means it.
Who says I love you—and means that more.
She walks barefoot into memory
and plants flags where the ache used to be.
She prays with her hands in the dirt.
She blesses with her eyes wide open.
She is the firelight
that remembers the original blueprint.
Not to be tamed,
but to be honored and cherished.
Not to be owned,
but to be stood beside.
And if the world forgets
the sacred balance—
Ezer remembers.
And the Source?
The Wholeness from which both rose.
The river before the name.
The breath before the body.
The All.