Becoming

I used to beg the road to straighten,

to give me signs as I took each step.

But now — I walk with open hands.

There’s a hush in this in-between,

a breath held between what was and what might be.

Each closed door whispers of one unseen, opening.

Each ending, a soft echo: “Trust me, I know what comes next.”

I no longer need to know my next step.

The becoming is enough.

The shifting, the stirring —

are not signs of being lost, but of being written.

I am not finished.

I am not forgotten.

I am not forsaken.

I am clay in kind hands.

Trusting is not knowing the shape

but in knowing the Potter.

summer nostlagia

I never got to share these, but what a perfect way to say farewell to summer as she slowly gives way to autumn.

So long, summer sunshine ☀︎ Suadade, you are a deep nostalgic longing, a love that lingers until you come around again.

Six months of M ♡

I struggle to find the balance between capturing every moment and wanting to keep your laughter a secret between us.

For Mother's Day, my sister wrote me the sweetest poem:

Little hands and little feet A swift nine months, we finally meet Every day that passes, you grow into something a little new But no matter what age you'll be In my heart, you belong to me.

I am grateful for my family. Thankful for my village. We prayed for a healthy and happy baby boy. I believe our faith-filled prayers did not fall on deaf ears. They fertilized the soil in which God's promises were planted.

He is Tino; he is me; he is every answered prayer.