Shekinah

I was upset. Not the quiet, reflective kind of upset—the kind that hums under your breath and settles in your chest. The kind that makes you want to leave. Get in the car. Drive. Breathe somewhere else. So I decided I was going to the store. Not because I needed anything… but because I needed space. ⸻ That morning, I had prayed. Not a polished prayer. Not a church-sounding prayer. Just something honest: “God, keep me in Your will today. Teach me patience.” Simple. Dangerous. Because prayers...

We say it so early. Sometimes before we even know what it means. A baby reaches up with tiny hands, eyes wide, heart wide open—and we whisper it first: I love you. A child says it back with sticky fingers and no hesitation. A teenager says it softer, guarded. Friends say it casually, almost like punctuation. Lovers say it like a promise… or sometimes like a question. I love you. Three words. So easy to say. So hard to live. ⸻ The truth is… most of us learn to say “I love you” before we ever...

⸻ There was a cage. Not made of iron… but of beliefs, wounds, memories, labels. And inside it— there were eight birds. Each one alive. Each one breathing. Each one capable of flight. But none of them free. ⸻ The Birds We Carry The first bird was fear . It trembled constantly, convincing the others the sky was dangerous. The second was shame . It stayed low, whispering, “You don’t deserve to fly.” The third was control . It paced back and forth, gripping the bars, trying to manage the cage...