Inspired by the inward searching of the mind in Augustine’s Confessions , Chapter 9 Imprinted S. Ambrose, 2026 Before breath Before we learned our name, There were caverns- Hidden chambers created in the mind, Carved deep by eternity itself. Imprinted. Intelligence divinely designed, Images await fulfillment through time. Sacred impressions resting beneath consciousness, Longing to be gathered into fullness. And God- He digs and draws out. He reveals what life conceals, Brings to light what eternity ordained. Through our senses, He unveils. Through our fractures, He restores. Through communion, He speaks Until the soul awakens. Memory is a composition, Wonderfully carried By a melody descending from Heaven to earth. Notes composed in garners, Within marvelous rooms filled with wisdom. In the inward places- Collecting, discerning, becoming. Through wonder, Through suffering, Through the turning of memory’s soil. Every ache, Every delight, Every unanswered longing Becomes part...
Radiant Resilience Shelly Ambrose A fiery flame flickers free Lighting the way for those who dare to see. She holds a spark within this world, A truth so raw, it won’t be hurled. She’s not afraid to show what's real, To flow and feel, her heart’s a wheel. She guards every piece of her heart, Protecting the peace that sets her apart. She’s learned lessons the hard way, No longer afraid to truthfully say: “I won’t sell my soul— Not for anyone, not for anything!” She’ll find her path within her own two feet. At times, she catches an unforgettable beat, Other times, she stumbles, loses the count, Remembering life’s rhythms still unfolding. Does she belong with those who’ve forgotten how to create, Living each day like it’s too late? Or does she belong where hope still gleams, Waking from the numbness of forgotten dreams? She only belongs with those who hear The rhythm that keeps hope near, A melody found beneath the noise, Beyond the glow of lights and lies. She knows life’s ...
Stay Awhile S. Ambrose, 2026 I’ve always been invited to a table. A place already made for me before I knew how to arrive. People willing to scoot over, pass the bread, Or ask me to stay a little longer. Yet somehow, I still kept looking around wondering, Will we outgrow each other? Will this disappear too? Maybe that’s what fear does. It teaches you to hold joy like it’s borrowed. To treat love like it has an expiration date. To keep one hand on the door, even while being welcomed in. But this table, This gathering of grace, of ordinary people choosing each other in ordinary ways, Keep teaching me something different. Not through sermons. Not through speeches. But through small, sacred things. Shared meals. Serving one another. Late-night conversations. Checking in without being asked. Laughter loud enough to loosen grief from the body. The kind of honesty that doesn’t shame you for being human. The kind of love that doesn’t demand you perform to deserve it. And maybe that...
Comments
Post a Comment