Do You Realize It?

A Letter From God to The Ones Still Running

Note: There are seasons where love watches quietly, waiting for consent to move closer. This piece was written from that place: from the ache of being seen, protected, and loved long before I knew how to let God close.

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Do you realize it?

I am always near.

I cannot touch you unless you ask, I never would, but how can I watch you walk through a forest of thorns and razors without aching to protect you?

I breathe the branches aside as you pass.

Even when your legs are still cut open, I spare you deeper wounds.

If you asked, I could cover you in something stronger than fear; something the blades would break against.

Do you realize it?

I cradle you, even when you command me to stay back for the sake of what feels safer.

I see how sore you are.

How bruised.

How your beautiful skin runs red with memories.

I could wash those wounds clean.

I could ease the ache buried deep inside you.

If only you would ask.

Instead, I cradle the ground beneath your feet.

I hold the branches that cut you, forcing myself to watch your blood fall into my hands.

Waiting, always waiting, for your permission to heal what you believe must remain open.

I cradle the wind that brushes your cheeks the way I would, if you let me come closer.

Do you realize it?

I am strong within you, even as you call yourself weak.

You tell yourself that pain is something to outlast.

That bleeding is proof of endurance.

That if you just keep moving, nothing has defeated you yet.

But you cannot will wounds to close once the skin is torn open.

You must clean them, you must sew them, you must bandage them.

Or I can seal them with my powerful hands.

Just ask.

Let me come one step nearer.

I will not harm you the way others have.

My hands will not betray your trust.

My voice will not turn sharp and cruel.

My eyes will not hunger for you; they will only see your strength, your tenderness, your worth.

I will only love you.

That is all I am.

And all that matters.

Do you realize it?

I am here even as you press forward alone, telling yourself that no one can ease this pain.

You believe the end of the forest holds rest, but you are so tired, and I am grieving how much you are carrying.

You think surrender means losing power.

But clinging to pain as proof of strength has already cost you so much.

I am not asking to take your will.

I am asking to help you live.

I would hold you until warmth returned to your skin.

I would heal what you were never meant to endure alone.

I am your strength when yours runs thin.

I am love, and I am here, waiting to show you.

Please… don’t make pain the only thing holding you.

Give me permission.

Let me show you what love changes when it is allowed to come in close.

I would carry you to the other side of this forest, and you will be whole, and you will be healed.

I am life.

I am love.

Do you realize it?