When shadows stretch across the mind,
And silence weighs too loud, too long,
When every breath feels misaligned,
And nothing in you feels quite strong—
There lies a path not paved or straight,
Not lit by flame or gilded gold,
But one that opens up through fate,
And stories whispered, brave and old.
A path of rest, of quiet grace,
Of letting tears fall without shame,
Of facing wounds we dare not trace,
And softly calling them by name.
The soul does not demand to run,
It does not race, nor beg, nor plead—
It listens to the rising sun,
And follows only what it needs.
A cup of stillness, warm and deep,
A moment’s breath beneath the trees,
A place where grief and love can sleep
Together, wrapped in gentler seas.
And in that space, the soul begins
To mend with threads no eye can see,
It weaves its hurts into new skins,
And sings again, more honestly.
So healing’s not a lightning spark,
Nor something bought, nor forced, nor fast—
It’s finding light inside the dark,
And coming home to peace, at last.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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