✨A story✨
He will not find healing in the arms of the woman who sleeps beside him.
Her fingers are warm—
but her touch does not burn with truth.
She whispers comfort,
but not awakening.
She tells herself
this is love,
this is enough,
this is the life she chose.
And so she stays.
But her soul stays small.
Bound in quilts sewn from sermons,
stitched tight with shame.
She is not a wife of noble character.
For noble does not mean obedient.
Noble means true.
And truth is not what lives in their house.
He cannot be praised at the city gates,
because he has not walked through them clean.
Because there is no honor
in playing pretend.
They were meant to rise together.
Divine masculine and divine feminine—
Christ and Sophia,
Yeshua and Magdalene,
he as fire,
she as flame.
But instead
they keep passing down their pain
like family recipes.
She hands her daughters the same script
she was given—
to hush, to serve, to disappear in the name of God.
He teaches his sons that power
is something you take,
because no one ever taught him
how to receive love
without fear.
But there is another woman—
not in his bed,
but in his soul.
A woman laced with stars and stormlight.
One who remembers the sound of Eden.
She would not shrink for him,
but expand him.
She would speak the kind of truth
that splits him open
just wide enough
to finally let God in.
She would see him—
see him—
beneath the armor,
beneath the ache.
And her touch would not coddle—
it would cleanse.
She would pull the lies from his lips
and lay psalms there instead.
She would light his path
not with devotion,
but with vision.
For her love is not a transaction.
It is a temple.
And only those who dare enter barefoot
will taste its holy fire.
He will not find her
by searching.
He will find her
by shedding.
By unlearning.
By burning down every altar
he built in fear.
But if he ever did—
if he ever dared to hold a woman
made of both thunder and mercy—
he would’ve felt heaven pulse through his fingertips.
He would’ve known what it meant
to be met by a storm that loved him back.
To be undone and rebuilt
by a grace not born of weakness,
but of wild knowing.
Because she was never just a woman.
She was a mirror—
forged in stardust and softness.
She would’ve shown him his shadows and his splendor,
his wounds and his wisdom.
Not to shame him,
but to call him higher.
To remind him of the king
buried beneath his armor.
To speak to the boy
hiding behind his noise.
To awaken the man
who forgot he was divine.
She would’ve kissed his soul clean
with a fire that does not burn to destroy,
but to reveal.
And in her eyes,
he would’ve seen the man he was always meant to be—
not as he was,
but as he could’ve been.
The man his soul came here aching to remember.
But not every man can stand
the truth of his own reflection.
Not every man chooses to rise.