THE CODE OF FIRE AND GRACE

I walk the line between worlds—

between fury and forgiveness,

between the sword and the open hand.

My words are not weapons.

They are witnesses.

They testify to what was burned

and what was born from the ashes.

I speak scathing truth,

but I bow as I do.

For I know—

there but for the grace of God go I.

I do not burn to destroy,

but to reveal.

Not to punish,

but to purify.

The flame that moves through me

is not mine to hoard or hide.

It is the divine made visible—

holy rage transmuted to gold,

holy grief becoming song.

I am both torch and temple,

fire and forgiveness,

the voice that names the darkness

and the silence that lets it go.

May my art be my altar.

May every word be an offering.

May I burn without cruelty,

and shine without pride.

This is my vow:

To carry the fire with grace,

to wield the truth with humility,

to walk the bridge barefoot—

between hell and heaven,

between what hurt me

and what healed me—

and to call it sacred.

For I have learned that true strength is not in the roar,

but in the restraint that follows it.

It takes courage to speak,

but greater courage to stay kind.

Grace is not weakness—it is mastery.

It is the steady hand that pours water

on its own flame before it consumes the wrong thing.

When I burn, I burn with intention.

When I forgive, I forgive with discernment.

No longer do I confuse surrender with silence,

or peace with submission.

My grace is edged with sovereignty,

my compassion woven with wisdom.

The Code of Fire and Grace is not a doctrine—

it is a discipline.

It asks that I stand tall when trembling,

that I speak when silence would be easier,

and that I rest when the world demands performance.

It demands that I be human—

but holy in my humanity.

It reminds me that anger can be sacred,

that tears can be testimony,

that forgiveness does not erase accountability.

It teaches that I can love without allowing harm,

and that boundaries are not walls,

but prayers in form.

When I am tempted to rage without purpose,

I remember the cost of careless fire.

When I am tempted to stay silent,

I remember the cost of swallowed truth.

Balance is the altar.

Integrity is the flame.

And devotion is the offering.

I will not turn my pain into poison.

I will turn it into prophecy.

I will not let bitterness eat the beauty I have fought to reclaim.

Instead, I will weave it into art—

art that remembers, art that redeems.

I will speak of what was done to me,

but not let it define who I am.

I will carry the scars as scripture,

and the lessons as light.

For in every scar there is a doorway—

a passage between what was broken

and what was born.

To live by the Code of Fire and Grace

is to walk through life as both storm and calm.

It is to wield holy rage like lightning,

and divine compassion like rain.

It is to understand that justice and mercy

are not opposites but reflections.

So I will keep walking this bridge—

barefoot, reverent, alive.

With each step, I remember the vow:

To burn, but not consume.

To speak, but not wound.

To forgive, but not forget.

To rise, but never rule.

To love fiercely and let go freely.

For I am the keeper of both flame and peace.

And this—this balance, this devotion—

is my covenant with the divine.