Love comes home on weary feet,
Dusty roads and heartbeat’s beat,
Through storms that bent the tallest tree,
It finds its way to you and me.
It does not knock with polished hand,
Nor trumpet songs from the promised land,
But settles in like evening light,
Soft and golden, just before night.
It brings no answers, only peace,
The kind where restless questions cease,
And in the quiet of shared breath,
It makes a cradle out of death.
It smells of coffee, warm and slow,
Of letters read from long ago,
Of hands that never learned to leave,
Of hearts that dared and dared believe.
Love comes home not dressed in pride,
But in the tears we didn’t hide—
It comes through pain, through break, through roam—
And when it comes… it is home.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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