This Love is a Promise

This is a poem for every kid who was told God wouldn’t want them.

That? That was a lie. You are loved. And that? That is gospel.

For every tender soul who never heard ‘I’m proud of you’—not from their mother, their pastor, or their holy text— This is a poem for the wanderer with ash on their coat and fire still in their lungs—

I’m not your mother. I can’t replace her. But I know what I’d say if you were mine: I know that when I look at my child, the Holy One whispers in my ear and says, “Let it be love. A love that holds all of this child. This child is already worthy.”

You are already worthy. God is proud of you. Let this poem be that voice.

We had a conversation with the Holy One

It wasn’t thunder. It wasn’t fire on the mountain.

It was Wednesday. It was quiet.

We were standing at the sink when the voice came—

just a whisper between the sound of the dishwater and the hum of my breath.

And this is what they said:

I saw what they did to you. I saw the silence you survived. I watched you light candles even when no one came to the table. I heard you sing under your breath when they said your voice didn’t matter. I never left.

The Holy One who waits in the dark leaned in, and said:

The dark was never your punishment. It was your chrysalis. You are not late. You are not lost. You are becoming.

The Holy One who kindles joy, brushed your cheek with stars, and then whispered:

You were never too much. You were never alone. Every time you laughed, you wrote another gospel. Every kiss was holy. Every “no” was sacred.

And then, The Holy One who burns with Holy Fire and remembers, stood beside you and said:

If they feared your fire, it’s because it reminded them of their own. You don’t have to go back to the ashes to prove anything. You are the phoenix now. Fly.

The Holy One who walks the sky—who knows all the stars by name—pointed to the sky and said:

Look. The constellations are your ancestors. The wind still remembers your name. The story isn’t over. The stars haven’t stopped singing.

And then the one who makes light, the one who makes you light of heart said only this:

I am proud of you. I am so proud of you. Not because of what you survived. Not because of what you built. But because you stayed kind. Because you kept your flame. Because you dared to believe there was still a place for you in this world.

I had a conversation with the Holy One. And I thought about you, friend. The Holy One didn’t ask me to change. They just sat down beside me like you did. And the called me Beloved.

I think about how I would like to press this mug of tea into your hands. And wrap you up with joy. What color would joy be? Definitely rainbow.

Because this Love is a promise.

And just before they rose to go,
the Holy One with laughing eyes,
the one who makes beginnings bright
and endings soft,
turned once more and said:

You don't have to be useful to be radiant.
You don't have to be certain to be welcome.
You don’t have to be perfect to be loved.
You are my miracle in motion.
You’re allowed to enjoy being alive.