Rahab will tell you that your past doesn't define you — God can use anyone. Hagar will tell you God sees you. Esther will tell you to trust God — He will exalt you — in His timing. Hannah will tell you that God answers prayer. Ruth will tell you it’s not over until God says it is. Sarah will tell you that nothing is too hard for God. And... Patrizia will tell you that beauty rises from brokenness and healing flows from the hands of the one who mends hearts with His own. She’ll tell you about the little girl who learned to be brave in the shadows. About a heart once weighed down by rejection, now learning to rest in belovedness. She’ll whisper of creativity becoming a lifeline —brushstrokes that carried prayers, and pages that caught her tears. She’ll tell you that faith is not about always feeling strong, but about trusting the One who is. That love, when poured out freely, never returns void. That her greatest measure of success isn’t status or applause, but the lives touched by gentleness, truth, and grace. 📖 "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." — Psalm 34:18 (NIV) And if you listen closely, you’ll hear it in her laughter, see it in her art, and feel it in her embrace of those who feel unseen. She’ll tell you that your story, like hers, isn’t over. That God is still writing. Still redeeming. Still restoring. Prayer Lord, thank You that You waste nothing — not pain, not tears, not even shattered pieces. Write Your story through me. Let every scar become a testimony of Your healing touch. Use my life to bring light into the lives of others, even as You continue to heal mine.In Jesus’ Name, Amen. You are not forgotten, beloved one. Your story matters — because He’s in it and that makes all the difference.

This morning at Shona’s Life Group, something unexpected and holy happened. Eric, the prophet, had arrived. He shared a word with the group and then began speaking prophetically over each person. When he turned to me, just like the previous time, earlier this year, his words were brief but weighty: "You are a chosen one. God has chosen you." That was all and yet, it was everything. The moment those words were spoken, the atmosphere shifted. My body gave way and I was slain in the Spirit — not out of emotional hype, but because my soul recognised the truth it had been longing to hear. I was completely undone. My whole being responded with a “yes” that came from the deepest place. You see, for someone like me — someone who’s wrestled with the scars of rejection and the ache of abandonment — being chosen has never come easily. I’ve often felt overlooked, replaceable, not quite enough. So to hear God Himself call me chosen… it cracked something open in me. What does it mean to be a chosen one? It means He sees me. Not the mask. Not the performance. Me. 📖 “You did not choose Me, but I chose you and appointed you that you should go and bear fruit...” — John 15:16 (NKJV) It means I was not an accident or an afterthought. I was wanted. Desired. Set apart. 📖 “…He chose us in Him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and without blame before Him in love…” — Ephesians 1:4 (NKJV) Chosen ones don’t always have it easy. We often walk through valleys deeper than most. We feel things others brush past. We carry heaven’s ache and earth’s weight. But we’re also drawn into the tenderness of Jesus in a way few understand. To be chosen is not just to be called — it’s to be cherished. I think this word needs some early morning snuggle time with Jesus. There’s more He wants to say to my heart. More healing. More identity to be restored. More of His delight to uncover. Because when God calls you chosen, He’s not just assigning you a role. He’s giving you a place in His heart that no one else can fill and today, I believe Him. I am seen. I am known. I am chosen. And that changes everything. Holy Spirit, Thank You for meeting me in that moment. Thank You for speaking directly to the ache I've carried for so long. I receive this word — not as a label to strive for, but as a truth to rest in. Teach me what it means to be chosen. Let it soak into the old places where rejection once lived. Rewrite every lie with Your love. Wrap me in the warmth of Your presence, and anchor my heart in this truth: You wanted me. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

As children, we once looked up with wide eyes and full hearts, declaring, “My daddy is the strongest!” or “My mummy is the prettiest!”   We believed it with all our being before we knew disappointment. Before broken promises. Before silence that spoke louder than words. Somewhere along the way, the pedestal we placed our parents on began to crumble. Sometimes gradually, other times through one shattering moment. Their humanness startled us. Their weaknesses wounded us. And in those moments, our child-heart didn’t know what to do with the pain.  📖 "Grandchildren are the crowning glory of the aged; parents are the pride of their children." — Proverbs 17:6 (NLT) What happens, then, when the pride is replaced by pain? 🤔 When the one we once celebrated becomes the one we silently resent? 🤔   The truth is, many of us were never taught how to repair after rupture. We were disciplined, perhaps, but not discipled into reconciliation. We were scolded for speaking up, not shepherded through sorrow. So we learned to suppress, to survive. But suppressed pain grows roots — deep roots of offence, bitterness, and even contempt. And if left unresolved, it dishonours not just them, but also the very image of God etched into our hearts.   📖 "If you insult your father or mother, your light will be snuffed out in total darkness." — Proverbs 20:20 (NLT) This verse isn’t about shame. It’s about sacred alignment. Honour is not about excusing wrong behaviour — it’s about choosing to see with redemptive eyes, to release what was broken into God’s hands and trust Him to restore what we cannot.   And here’s the sobering truth: These childhood judgements — the ones we quietly made in our pain — don’t stay neatly boxed up and labelled “Mum” or “Dad.” They leak. They morph and mutate. They spill into every relationship with caregivers, mentors, bosses, spiritual leaders… even our view of God.   The anger or distrust we never voiced becomes the lens through which we see the world and suddenly, we’re not just reacting to them anymore — we’re reacting to echoes.   I can see this clearly now. The expectancies I placed on others and the silent judgements I made when those expectations weren’t met have affected me more deeply than I realised. They’ve shaped the way I've responded to teachers at school, colleagues in the workplace, and even recent situations with my boss, church leaders, pastors, and elders. Each moment of mistrust was like an echo from a wound not yet fully healed. Each disappointment carried the weight of unresolved grief. Sometimes, we even come to expect people to treat us in certain ways and when they do — whether through rejection, avoidance, control, or dismissal — it confirms a familiar ache. We silently declare, “See? 🤔 You’re just like them.” Not because they truly are, but because the wound recognises the pattern and in that moment, we are no longer judging the person before us — we are judging through the filter of unresolved pain from the past.   And here’s another tender truth: In our wounding, we often fail to separate the behaviour from the person. What they did becomes who they are in our eyes and without realising it, we write entire narratives around people based on moments of pain — narratives that may not be entirely true.   Yet the wound clings tightly, because it longs for protection more than perspective. But Jesus calls us higher — to forgiveness that doesn’t blur boundaries, but brings clarity. He teaches us to name the wrong, release the person, and allow His truth to do what our judgment never could: heal.   Forgiveness doesn’t require us to pretend all was well and that what they did wasn't painful. Honour doesn’t mean becoming silent or small. Rather, it is a posture of humility that says, “Even in my pain, I choose freedom. I choose blessing over bitterness.” because the fifth commandment was not a suggestion — it was a seed. 📖 "Honour your father and your mother… that your days may be long upon the land which the Lord your God is giving you." — Exodus 20:12 (NKJV) This is the only commandment that carries a promise which means, inversely, that dishonour becomes a doorway to shortened joy, fractured wellbeing, and generational pain. The law of sowing and reaping applies not only to fields, but to families. If our parents tempted us to wrath, may we release them from the debt of perfection. If they failed to model conflict resolution, may we learn it anew with God. If they wounded us deeply, may we bring those wounds to the Healer who binds the broken-hearted because freedom isn’t found in forgetting — it’s found in forgiving.   A Heartfelt Prayer Father God, You see the tangled web of memories, some sweet, some searing. Where there was neglect, bring nurture. Where there was anger, bring peace. Help me forgive what still feels unforgivable — not by my own strength, but through Your grace. Teach me how to honour even in pain, how to set healthy boundaries while still holding sacred what You called holy. Let the legacy I carry forward be one of healing, not hurt. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.   A Gentle Invitation If the pedestal has fallen… don’t be afraid to rebuild a new kind of honour — one rooted in truth, tempered by grace, and held together by the redemptive love of Jesus. You are not alone in this. You are seen. You are healing and you are rewriting the story, one surrendered step at a time. 🌿💛

Sometimes, integrity feels like truth — even when it trembles on your lips. It’s staying faithful to what you believe — not just in public, but in the quiet corners of your life. It’s tested when: You’re tempted to cut corners for comfort or gain. You choose silence over gossip, grace over retaliation. You admit your mistakes rather than cover them up.– You keep loving those who have walked away. You answer “I’m fine” when inside you’re freaking out, insecure, neurotic, and emotional. You’re tempted to save face by lying through omission — leaving out parts of the truth to avoid embarrassment, conflict, or consequence. That last one? It’s subtle. It hides behind good intentions. Yet Holy Spirit, so gentle and kind, convicts us not to half-speak our truth. He calls us higher — not for punishment, but for purity. For our hearts to be truly whole. The world often rewards compromise, but I don’t want what costs me my peace. Integrity is the oil in my lamp — keeping my flame lit for the Bridegroom’s return. 📖 "The integrity of the upright will guide them, but the perversity of the unfaithful will destroy them." — Proverbs 11:3 (NKJV) I want to be guided by that light. To live honestly and generously. To be the same in the secret place as I am in the spotlight. To speak truth with kindness and love deeply without an agenda. Personal integrity is the alignment between my values and actions. It’s not about being perfect — it’s about being true. True to my principles. True to my word. True to the person God created me to be. When I live with integrity, I foster trust — not just with others, but within myself. That trust builds confidence and self-respect, because I know I’m being honest. That I’m living an undivided life — one where my inner world and outer world mirror one another with grace. 📖 “Let your ‘Yes’ be ‘Yes,’ and your ‘No,’ ‘No.’ For whatever is more than these is from the evil one.” — Matthew 5:37 (NKJV) It’s not just about being truthful to others; it’s also about honouring myself. That means keeping my promises to me. Following through on goals and dreams — not for performance, but because they are sacred. Because I am sacred. Because self-respect is the cornerstone of a life lived well. Without it, I’m not truly whole. So I will value who I am, not just what I do. I will speak kindly to the mirror and stop hiding behind polished answers. I will treat myself with the same love, honour, and dignity I so freely give others. 📖 “He who walks with integrity walks securely, but he who perverts his ways will become known.” — Proverbs 10:9 (NKJV) I no longer measure success by what others can see. I measure it by my ability to lay my head down at night and feel God's smile. So I keep walking — even when it’s lonely, even when the cost is high. I know Who goes with me. Prayer: Jesus, You are the Truth. Let my life echo that truth with honesty, humility, and wholeness. Help me to walk in integrity not only with others, but with myself — no masks, no pretence, just a surrendered heart. Let me reflect Your character in my actions, my words, and the way I show up for my own soul. Teach me to honour myself as one created in Your image.In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

I came across this image today — an eagle in full, commanding flight… with a crow perched on its back. At first, it felt absurd. A crow? 🤔Riding an eagle? 🤔Pecking at its neck like a child trying to annoy a lion. Yet the eagle didn’t thrash. Didn’t twist mid-air to retaliate. It didn’t even flinch. It just kept soaring higher.   Higher and higher… until the crow, breathless from the altitude, had no choice but to let go. Isn’t that exactly how we’re called to live? 🤔  📖 “But those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles…” — Isaiah 40:31 (NKJV) Some days the opposition doesn’t come in thunderclaps but in persistent, pecking distractions — words that sting, misunderstandings that cling, criticism that loops in your mind like a crow on your back.   Oh, how I’ve felt the crows lately. The naysayers. The self-doubt. The jabs cloaked in concern. The echo of old wounds trying to convince me I’m not enough. By words, expectations, inner critics, and yes… even some people I’ve tried to love well. The noise of it all can be deafening. And it’s tempting, oh so tempting, to turn around and fight, to explain, to defend, to correct. But in the quiet with Holy Spirit this morning, I sensed a gentle whisper: “Don’t flap. Don’t fight. Just rise.” You were never meant to wrestle with crows. You were meant to rise.   Sometimes elevation is our best answer. Not to be aloof. Not to escape. But because when we lift our eyes, when we set our minds on things above (Colossians 3:2), the air gets clearer. The noise grows faint. And we begin to breathe in truth again.   We don’t rise by striving. We rise by surrender. We ascend in stillness, when we remember who we are and whose we are. The eagle isn’t distracted by the crow because it knows its domain — the heights. You were never meant to live among the noise. Your wings were made for altitude.Not every voice deserves a reply. Not every battle requires our presence. Some things fall away not because we fought, but because we outgrew them. Because the air we're called to breathe is found in the secret place — the high place.   We don’t have to engage every accusation. We don’t have to descend into arguments or try to prove our worth. The crow cannot survive the heights God is calling us to. The more we rise — in faith, in peace, in trust — the more the voices that don’t belong to us fall away.   📖 “The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.” — Exodus 14:14 (NIV)   🪶 So I choose today to stop flapping… and start soaring. To worship instead of worry. To trust instead of tremble. To lift my eyes to the hills, where my help comes from. I will not be brought down by what was never meant to ride on my back. I will keep rising — not because I’m strong, but because His strength carries me. Because the wind beneath my wings is not my own effort, but His Spirit lifting me. Because that’s who I am:Not a fighter of crows, but a daughter of the most High.Not called to wrestle, but to rise. 🙌 Prayer: Jesus, teach me to rise.When others misunderstand me, help me resist the urge to fight back.Lift me above the noise, above the need to be seen or defended.Let me breathe in Your truth — not the accusations.Make me like the eagle: still, strong, surrendered to the winds of Heaven.In Jesus’ Name, Amen. — I'm not losing the battle, beloved. I'm just climbing higher. 🦅 I'll keep soaring. They were never meant to follow me to this altitude.

I’m still feeling groggy this morning, the blocked nose lingering like fog over my thoughts. I didn’t get up at 4:45 am when I first stirred. Clive was already awake, on his phone — apparently, I’d been snoring. I turned over and closed my eyes again. This cold or flu has clung to me for a couple of days now. My lips are cracked and sore... winter lips for the 3rd time since we've been in New Zealand and honestly… I don’t just feel tired. I feel flat like a battery that’s not just low, but completely flat. Somewhere in the early morning stillness, I had another strange dream. I don’t remember much, only this vivid image — something hanging out of my left eye tooth. When I pulled it, it unravelled like a never-ending bandage until there was a huge pile in my hand. That same tooth had fractured recently. Not long ago — only two weeks — I’d been to the dentist for that exact tooth. The filling had broken. The tooth, mostly patchwork now, was fragile. And even the recent repair has already begun to wear down again. A real-life echo of the dream's imagery. Then, I found myself downstairs, wearing old pyjamas — a long t-shirt top I used to wear in South Africa before the boys were even born. More than 28 years ago. They were on backwards. I hadn’t expected anyone to be there. Yet I could sense Clive and others nearby. Embarrassed, I rushed back upstairs to change — to cover, to make myself more presentable. Isn’t it wild how shame still finds ways to whisper, even in sleep? Yes, that girl still lives somewhere inside me — the one who wore oversized tops, not to be seen, who hadn’t yet mothered, ministered, or mended. That moment pierced deeper than I expected. Why do I still feel the need to hide when the past shows up on me? Downstairs again, Elias was in a neighbouring room. I avoided him, though not from fear or bitterness — only detachment — a quiet ache that no longer feels safe to expose. Oddly, when I saw him at The Crate on Friday, I didn’t feel the urge to leave. I just didn’t feel like engaging. In the dream, he stood at the door, back turned, putting on a cream jacket I’ve never seen before. Something about that image felt symbolic. A departure. A new identity. A distance. Maybe even a finality. Only time will tell where this relationship leads, but for now, the friendship I once cherished is fraying at the edges. Broken trust is hard to mend when safety has been compromised. 📖 "The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart, and saves such as have a contrite spirit." — Psalm 34:18 (NKJV) There are places in me still learning to be seen — as I am now, and as I was then. Even when I wear the past inside out. I'm being reclothed in righteousness, precious one — and no old garment, no foreign jacket, and no broken tooth can ever define me. Today I let this dream be my invitation to shed the past and step into what is new, clothed by grace.

Listen . . . The Spirit of the Lord is calling. Not tomorrow. Not when you feel more ready. Not when the timing seems more convenient. Today. He is calling you now — to His service. Whether to kneel in quiet prayer or to stand in bold conversation. Whether to comfort the broken-hearted or carry out a task unseen by others. Whether it feels insignificant or monumental — it matters. Because obedience is where the power lies. We are His Remnant Army — An army not built on prestige, but on purpose. Some are called to lead. Many are called to follow. But each has a post to hold. A place to stand. A call to heed. So listen, beloved. He is whispering your name. Not with condemnation, but with commissioning. 📖"Arise, shine; for your light has come! And the glory of the Lord is risen upon you.” — Isaiah 60:1 (NKJV) He is calling you to stand — and to keep standing. You will be tried. You will be tested. But do not forget: 📖 "He who is in you is greater than he who is in the world." — 1 John 4:4 (NKJV) Or, as He once spoke into my spirit, "I am not afraid of you. The power that is in Me created the power that is in you." This is the Breaker Anointing. To go first. To stand firm. To carry breakthrough. Not by strength. Not by might. But by His Spirit. The Lord is calling. Will you answer? Not just with your lips, but with your life? The Lord is calling. Listen . . .

They say life is about the journey. Others say it’s about the destination. But I’ve come to see — it’s really about the company. The sacred, imperfect, life-giving company we keep. If you asked me what the most beautiful part of my life is, I wouldn’t name a place, a title, or even a moment. I would simply look around at the ones God has entrusted to me — those I get to love and walk with, stumble beside, laugh with, cry for, and grow alongside. This right here — this is it.

Not everyone who claps is clapping for you. Not everyone who smiles is safe. Sometimes the very ones we trusted with our hearts are the ones who step back when we start to shine. Some relationships begin with thunderous applause — words of admiration, support, shared dreams and late-night prayers. It feels like covenant. Like family. Like forever.

Last night I had a weird dream... In this dream, I was an adult back in primary school — not to regress, but to revisit something formative. I received a report card that implied failure. It wasn’t about a real academic shortcoming, but a deeper internal narrative: "You should be further along by now." This inner critic, rooted in old wounding, may still be trying to measure my worth by performance — even in my spiritual walk.

There’s a sacred kind of grief that comes with hindsight — the ache of seeing where you fell short, especially with the ones you love most. This is a lesson I’ve learnt the hard way on my journey through inner healing. I’ve made all these mistakes and more with my precious boys… and by God’s grace, I’m learning to make amends.

The battle, dear friend, has always been for the heart. Not the surface behaviour. Not the polished persona. Not even the picture-perfect responses we muster for the world to see. Behaviour is merely the fruit — the visible outworking of our heart’s condition. What lies beneath the surface, in the unseen chambers of our being, tells the real story. “The true story of every person is not the story you see, the external story. The true story is the journey of his or her heart.” — John Eldredge & Brent Curtis

There was a time when “frumpy” stung like a thorn in my heart. A word given as a description of a first impression of me, but one that rooted itself deeper than it should have. It became a whisper in my mind every time I looked in the mirror… a lie wrapped in shame, telling me I wasn’t lovely, wasn’t seen, wasn’t enough. Yet God. God saw something different. He didn’t call me frumpy — He called me fearless. He called me radiant, unshakeable, merciful, purposeful, and yielded to His refining hand. He whispered truth into the very place that had once been defined by someone else’s label and as I listened, the old letters began to take on a new life… F.R.U.M.P.Y. — The Transformed Me 🌸 F — Fearless in faith, no longer hiding or shrinking back. 🌸 R — Radiant with Heaven’s joy, reflecting His glory and grace. 🌸 U — Unshakeable, rooted in truth, walking in wholeness and purpose. 🌸 M — Merciful to self and others, moved by compassion not comparison. 🌸 P — Purposeful, clothed in strength and dignity, rising with divine direction. 🌸 Y — Yielded to the Potter’s hand, beautifully becoming all He created me to be. This reframing was more than a poetic exercise. It was a prophetic declaration — a breaking off of old lies and a stepping into the light of my true design. Like dry bones rattling back to life, the name that once brought me shame now prophesies beauty from ashes. 📖 "Do not call to mind the former things, or consider the things of the past. Behold, I will do a new thing…" — Isaiah 43:18–19 (NKJV, paraphrased) As I re-read my core values — faith, compassion, creativity, courage, healing — I saw that these are not things I aspire to. They are the truths I now embody. They’ve been forged in the fire, pressed into clay, painted in gold. So to the girl who once shrank under labels... You are not “too much.” You are not “too little.” You are just right — just as He formed you, seen through eyes of love. 💡 Reflection: What labels have you carried that God never spoke over you? 🤔 How has God reframed or renamed you in this season? 🤔 What acronym could you create from a past label to reflect who you are becoming in Christ? 🤔 🎺 Affirmation: I am not the words that once diminished me. I am God’s radiant daughter, fearless in faith and full of purpose. 🙌🏻 Prayer: Abba Father, thank You for rewriting the stories I believed about myself. Thank You that even what the world called ugly or unworthy, You redeem and repurpose. Help me live out the new names You’ve given me — fearless, radiant, and purpose-filled. Let the words that once wounded now be windows of Your grace. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

For many years after school, I walked through life with an invisible sign slung around my neck: “I’m stupid.” It wasn't written in ink or carved in wood — it lived in my thoughts, shadowed my choices, and whispered lies whenever I dared to dream beyond what I thought I deserved. That sign was hung on me by a system that mistook performance for worth. Even though I earned some distinctions for matric back in 1987, I never pursued further study. I didn’t feel smart. I didn’t feel seen. The truth is, that sign wasn’t born from failure — it was born from striving.

Some lessons arrive slowly, whispered over years of loyal companionship and unspoken expectations. Then one day, like sunlight piercing a crack in the wall, the truth seeps in: they were never really standing with you. I read the words in the image above and felt the ache settle in my chest, not the sharp kind, but that slow, deep sadness that surfaces when the veil is lifted. It’s not just about the friend you lose; it’s about the illusion that breaks.

Today I saw a post that stirred something deep — a challenge framed in stark contrast: Lucifer was cast out of Heaven for disobedience, Adam cast out of Eden for the same… so what makes me, a Christian, think I can live in disobedience and still enter Heaven? It felt like a heavy blow at first. A sharp reminder. But Holy Spirit gently rewrote the narrative in my heart.

In a world where so many hearts carry hidden bruises and silent ache, healing is not just a process — it's a promise. A tender invitation from the One who sees every tear and knows every story. As I sat with the Lord and poured out the heart behind Healing 💔heARTs💖, this visual took shape — a lyrical reflection of the journey many of us find ourselves on.

I felt a little undone after running into Elias at The Crate during the NNT Stand-up this morning. There was a subtle shift though — I didn’t feel the urge to flee the room like I used to. Monday’s prayer ministry softened something inside me, unravelling just enough of the tangled threads for me to stay present.

In the quiet hush of early morning, when the world was still cradled in slumber, I found myself sitting with the Lord — my heart tender, my spirit awake. A gentle unveiling took place. Like peeling back layers of a well-worn canvas, I began to see the strokes of an old, familiar pattern woven through my life.

Losing a job to a virtual assistant in the Philippines had a much deeper emotional impact than I expected. On the surface, the reasoning was clear. Back in September, Elias had already mentioned the possibility, and logically, I understood that the organisation simply couldn’t sustain the administrator’s hourly rate unless major changes occurred. My head accepted this reality; financially, it made sense. Yet when the decision was finally made, my heart reacted in ways I didn’t anticipate. What seemed like a rational, practical shift opened the floodgates of old, hidden pain. In prayer ministry, it became clear that the loss touched something buried far deeper: childhood wounds of feeling replaced, not good enough, unseen in my value. It wasn’t just about a role ending; it was about echoes of little-girl-Trixi wondering, “Am I worthy of staying?”🤔 This is where faith meets the rawness of emotion. Scripture reminds us: 📖 "The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart, and saves such as have a contrite spirit." — Psalm 34:18 (NKJV). God was close even in the sting of rejection, holding the tender parts of my heart that had long been waiting for His healing touch. The rational mind said, “This is necessary for the organisation’s survival.” Yet the soul whispered, “Something deeper is being unearthed here.” It is in these places—where logic collides with old wounds—that God invites transformation. I am learning to see this not as evidence of my insufficiency, but as an opportunity for the Holy Spirit to rewrite the story. What was once a trigger is becoming a doorway into wholeness. Though painful, this moment is not about being replaced, but about being restored—reminded again that my worth is not defined by a role, a wage, or even another’s decision. My worth is anchored in Christ, who calls me chosen, beloved, and irreplaceable. 🙌Prayer: Lord, thank You for being near in moments when rejection stirs old fears. Heal the memories that still ache and replace them with Your truth. Anchor my worth in You alone, and teach me to see endings not as erasure, but as invitations into deeper belonging. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.