VI. Becoming

Resurrection is patient—

and merciful.

We found each other again

not as saviors,

but as survivors

who chose healing

as daily bread.

~~~

We gathered grace

in small portions—

trust sewn back together

like torn linen.

We grew again

but different than before —

slow

steady

strong.

A deep river

where wild flames

once spread.

~~~

And from the sturdy banks

of our new becoming

rose a son—

heartbeat carving hope

into the quiet earth of us.

A child not born from triumph,

but from tending wounds

until they turned garden.

~~~

God returned.

Not in thunder

but in

breath.

~~~

In my wife’s fingers

braiding hope

through grief.

~~~

In the tiny fists

of a son

who does not know

the wars I fought

to stand here.

~~~

In a daughter

still forming

beneath her heartbeat,

a promise I never

could have written

alone.

~~~

In the quiet completion

of a PhD

that once felt

like a prayer

too fragile to hold.

~~~

That which remained

in periphery

now manifests

in sacred moments.

I no longer need

answers

to feel anchored.

~~~

I have learned

holiness

has the texture

of curiosity,

the fragrance

of small joys,

the rhythm

of breath

and brokenness

and beginning again.

~~~

God lives here—

in doubt,

in awe,

in questions holy enough

to kneel beside.

~~~

And I—

still growing,

still haunted

by the echoes

of who I was—

have found peace

not in knowing,

but in asking

and loving

and waking

every day

to the miracle

that I am still

becoming.