This Grace
Words. The place where the rich meets the creativity. The place where puzzles become pictures, thoughts become songs. It's where my heart dances, my fingers race. Where my soul creates tangible, tattoo-like concrete carvings. It's the place where my mind rests, yet my brain soars--flies in the sky next to birds, above the planes, beyond the clouds. I am free up here, and yet each word fails to suffice the sheer beauty, the meekness of my humanity, the overwhelming reality--that exactly who I am is undeserved--yet the realest me has always been worthy. This is grace. It's the place where these thoughts create astonishingly beautiful, yet senseless unity. Where my heart is restored, and my soul can dance. My mind can't match A to Z, but my heart rests. I know who the Creator is. Reflecting, my humanity keeps me grounded, stuck on the runway as the storms blow in, stuck in my own sense of meaning, falling up short. It's where the wind blows strong and my eyes see
