Three small words tucked inside Genesis 1:11–13 — grass, herb, tree — turned out to be the story of my whole life: the season I couldn’t let go of, the pruning I didn’t want, and the tree I’m still becoming. I almost read right past them.
I felt like dry ground — useless, behind, wondering why God would call me to anything if He wasn’t going to show me the fruit yet. What I almost missed: He never leaves dry ground nameless. He names it first, and the fruit comes after.
Being set apart costs something real — I lost someone I still love over it. But God never separates you without building something to hold you up. This is what I found hidden in one Hebrew word, and what it’s teaching me about grief that hasn’t fully healed yet.
A season of chronic pain, an impossible decision, and a rooftop prayer — and what God taught me about naming darkness instead of just removing it.
Mama was here first. A raw, honest conversation with God about writing, resistance, and the blueprint He never actually gave me.
I let the dream go, telling myself I wasn’t talented enough, not spiritual enough. But God isn’t grading my paper in red — He’s smiling over a chaotic love letter, finally finished. So I’m starting. Not perfectly. Just honestly. My letter to Abba, and the page I kept avoiding.
