I am healed, and I am healing still. I am recovered, and I am recovering still. I am nourished, and I am nourishing still. Thank You, God, that I serve the God who says, ‘I Am That I Am.’ And because I know that, I know that I AM, TOO.
May we flow in Your grace, knowing that You created us 70% water and 100% capable. With You, nothing is impossible, and in You, we are victorious. It’s already done. Amen.
I realized I needed to go back to 2024, to begin again. But when I tried, I encountered resistance—big resistance. Something stood in the way. And yet, through it all, I held tighter to the steady thread, the one with God holding the other end.
These fears have been swirling around in my head for a while, but I hadn’t taken the time to name them. And as I was writing them out, something amazing happened—they started to dissipate. Fear isn’t from God—it’s something that tries to hold me back from the bold, courageous steps I’ve been called to take.
You, My dear, were created in love, by love, for love, to love! Your life is unfolding. Allow it to unfold with ease and grace. Like a flower in bloom, so too, are you!
God, I thank You that I reserve the right to change my mind. I thank You that I am happy, healthy, healing, whole, and well. I thank You that with You, there’s nothing in this world I cannot do.
God’s answer to me lately has been one word: Move. Not move cities or move houses—just move. Physically. Take the walk. Stretch your legs. Get up! Jesus walked. He communed with His Father as He moved, and there’s something sacred and holy and divine about that. When I go on walking meditations, I hear God more clearly, more fully, more deeply. I see Him in the diversity of the leaves on the trees, in the falling leaves, in the rhythm of my steps, the chirping of birds, and in children’s laughter.
Shame has been a mother tongue because I was taught to be ashamed—ashamed of my body, my size, the fullness of my nose, the width of my hips, the gap in my teeth, the volume of my laughter, the chocolate brown of my skin, and the depths of my joy. But those very things I used to hate, those very parts of me I used to loathe, have become the parts I love the most.
When I listen, God speaks to my innermost being, to my interstitial spaces. When I obey and act by faith, God moves big and bold on my behalf.
The only way to truly do this wrong is to not do it at all. So here I am, taking my own advice—showing up, even if it’s imperfect. Because what’s the alternative? To keep my thoughts to myself, trapped by the idea that I need to fit into some imaginary mold? As my nephew used to say at the beautiful, ripe, polite age of 2, ‘No, thank you, please!’
