You are not a storm I weather,
not a test I must endure—
You are My Heavenly Joy,
crafted tender, fierce, and pure.
Not the aftermath of failure,
not the weight of what went wrong—
but the laughter in My silence,
and the rhythm in My song.
I do not flinch when you unravel,
nor turn My gaze when you fall through—
I call you Beloved through the wreckage,
and smile, for I already knew.
You were never meant for shame,
not designed to beg or strive—
You were formed in joy’s own image;
in My breath, you came alive.
So when they say you’re too much,
too loud, too wild, too free—
I’ll lean in with quiet wonder,
and say, That’s exactly how I made you to be.
J.N. Rose 