I probably don’t love you as much as I say I do. My words may bloom like roses, but its roots grow elsewhere too.
I say I love you but my hands, my time, my hidden longings confess another truth. My devotions kneel at other altars. My heart is not yet fully yours
My actions wander sideways, my passions burn askew the deepest fires in my chest may not be lit for you.
Yet you, so full of quiet grace, have given love untold. You’ve held me in my scattered state, and never once let go.
Fragmented, fearful, still learning I can grow that kind of love. Not by promises or passion, but by small, daily deaths of self, by reliance on you when it isn’t easy, by having love where selfishness once stood.
Help me, this day and the next, to turn gently toward you an inch more open, an inch more whole An inch more loving until my love finally learns how to stay.
Not Force, but Character
