The Breeze

It came without ceremony —
a hush, a softness, a stirring of air through the open door.
But I knew what it was.

Not chance.
Not weather.
Not coincidence.

It was mercy.

A breeze that carried the touch of the unseen God,
the One who ordains:
not just galaxies,
but grief and grace,
and gusts that brush your cheek when your soul aches.

I stood in the threshold of now —
the past behind me, only glory ahead —
and felt the ache of Paul:
alone but not abandoned,
grieved but not crushed,
weary but never without hope.

I did not ask for this path.

I did not carve it with my feet.

It was given, granted, decreed.

And here I walk —
not boasting, nor resisting,
but bearing the weight of a cross I was chosen to carry.

Chosen — not because I’m worthy, but because He is.

I feel the sting of separation,
and the warmth of love,
I feel the silence of distance and the nearness of God.

Let them misunderstand.
Let them post.
Let them scoff and drift and forget.
Let them call my solitude a loss!

I have counted the cost. And in this moment —
with a gentle breeze for a witness and tears for ink —
I say again what my heart already knows:
He is worthy.
And I am His.

And the breeze was sent by Him who knows me.