life

Tag: jesus

  • White Doves. 36

    A feather drifts down—
    Soft, weightless, uncertain path—
    Vanished on the wind.

    Every day, you arrive. Morning, noon, night. Each time, you step through the door like a shadow slipping across the floor. Your presence lingers in the corners of the room, settling into the dust motes caught in the late-afternoon light. Even in silence, you remain. Even when you say nothing, I can hear you.

    The world outside is restless, but inside, time folds into itself. Objects hold their breath; the room brims with quiet. There is a moment when everything aligns—when the world balances between reality and dream, and in that fragile space, white doves settle onto the threshold of our door.

    The Ephemeral Stay

    You have always been more presence than person, more echo than conversation. There is something unspoken between us, stretched tight like an invisible thread. It holds, but only barely. Your movements are deliberate, careful, like someone who has learned to exist without disrupting the silence. But I wonder, if I were to speak first, would you shatter?

    We orbit each other, bound by things neither of us name. The days pass in a quiet symmetry—your arrival, your presence, your leaving. And yet, something remains each time you go. Something weightless but real. Like a dove’s feather left behind in the wake of flight.

    The Inevitable Departure

    Then, you leave. Always the same way. Always with that same look—a quiet hesitation, as if you are running from something, or perhaps toward it. You flee not just from me but from yourself, from the reflection in my eyes that sees you too clearly.

    Behind you, the air remains unsettled. The room exhales. The doorframe hums with absence. And outside, startled doves scatter into the sky, their wings carving paths into the evening air.

    I know one day you will go and not return. One day, you will leave for good. And when that moment comes, you will take the doves with you, banishing them from the doorstep they once claimed as their own.

    Lessons from the Doves

    1. Presence is felt, even in silence — Some people linger long after they leave the room. Pay attention to the spaces they fill.
    2. Not all departures are sudden — Some unravel slowly, step by step, until there is nothing left to hold.
    3. Avoidance is its own kind of closeness — Running from something means acknowledging its pull.
    4. Moments of stillness are fleeting — The world shifts, doves scatter, time moves forward. Nothing stays in place forever.
    5. One day, all doors will close — Cherish the moments before they do.

    A gust of wind lifts the last feather from the doorstep. It spirals into the sky, carried toward something unknown. And with it, the door closes, the doves disappear, and all that remains is the space where you once stood.

  • The Evening Invitation. 23

    A dusk breeze whispers—
    Mountains hum their quiet song—
    The world leans closer.

    The evening had fallen like a soft sigh, draping the hills in a haze of muted gold. I found myself wandering along a narrow path that wound its way through dreaming fields and drowsy trees. In the distance, the hills stretched like sleeping giants, their silhouettes bathed in the tender hues of twilight. It was then that I heard it—a voice, not loud but insistent, carried on the breeze like an unspoken promise. It wasn’t a voice meant for the ears; it was one that spoke directly to the heart. An invitation.

    The Call to Belong

    Every evening carries an invitation—a quiet beckoning to pause, to listen, to reconnect. The land invites us to rest our burdens. The sky, tinged with the remnants of daylight, invites us to dream. It’s a call that doesn’t demand answers or effort, only presence.

    The invitation is not always clear. Sometimes, it comes disguised as a gentle pull to step outside and witness the sunset. Other times, it’s the rustle of leaves or the scent of rain-soaked earth that reminds us we are part of something much larger, something endlessly intricate yet profoundly simple.

    A World That Awaits

    Too often, we rush past the invitations life extends to us. We chase goals and deadlines, measuring days by productivity rather than presence. But the world waits patiently. It doesn’t ask for grand gestures or perfect attendance. It asks only that we come as we are—worn, flawed, and full of questions.

    When we answer this invitation, we’re not just stepping into a moment of peace; we’re stepping into a conversation. The land, the sky, the stillness—they speak to us in ways we’ve forgotten to listen for. And in their presence, we find parts of ourselves that we’ve left behind in the noise of living.

    Lessons From the Evening

    1. Pause to Listen: The world is always speaking, but it speaks softly. Pause, and you’ll hear its quiet invitations.
    2. Answer With Presence: You don’t need to bring anything but yourself. The evening accepts you just as you are.
    3. Find Grace in Stillness: There is a unique beauty in simply being. Let the stillness of the moment fill the spaces within you.
    4. Honor the Invitations: Whether it’s a sunset, a starry sky, or a breeze that brushes your cheek, these are moments that remind you to belong.
    5. Reconnect With Simplicity: Life’s most profound invitations often come from the simplest things—a rustling leaf, a shifting shadow, a fleeting light.

    Consider the twilight—a brief bridge between day and night. It doesn’t linger, nor does it strive to hold on to the light. Its transience is its magic.

    Picture a lantern glowing on a porch, its light trembling with every gust of wind. The glow is not constant, but it is alive, dancing with the world around it. It reminds us that imperfection is not something to resist but something to embrace.

    As the path led me deeper into the hills, the voice of the evening grew softer, almost like a hum against the edges of my mind. I stood still, watching as the last rays of sunlight slipped behind the hills. For a moment, there was no sound but the beating of my heart and the rustle of a distant tree. And I understood: the invitation wasn’t just to witness the world—it was to feel its pulse within me.

    The evening stretched its arms wide, and I let myself lean into its embrace. The world, in its imperfect, fleeting glory, had welcomed me. And in doing so, it reminded me of the simple truth that we are all invited, always. All we need to do is step forward.