He does not look at me through the eyes of the world.
He does not see the faults first, but the fire behind them.He sees a heart that feels too deeply, yet chooses to love anyway.A soul that shakes, but does not break.He hears my whispered prayers, the ones I don’t even speak aloud,and counts them as battle cries against the darkness.In my gentleness, He sees strength.
In my tears, prayer.
In my art, a prophetic whisper.
In my doubt, a longing for more of Him.
He sees someone who does not give up,
even when she thinks she has.
He sees the child who believes,
the woman who fights,
the image of Himself—slowly, surely,
shaped by love and light.
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