Faith is not only belief, it’s endurance, quiet and steady, through the unknown. What remains is the courage to trust when answers are out of reach, and the reassurance that even in doubt, love and hope are never lost.
Read MoreA Bite-Size Piece of Growth
What Remains
What remains draws you deep and pushes vulnerability to the forefront. Like a mirror, it reflects what is, while your memories emphasize what was. Isn’t it strange that what was lost is easily identifiable, but naming what remains can be challenging? It’s so easy to look back and realize a piece chipped off here, something was lost there, and then to find yourself here… looking at what remains. The losing, the chipping, made room for restoration, elevation, and renewal. To remain means that what was is not the same… and that brings me joy.
Read MoreLove changes shape. What begins as fire softens into warmth, what feels like certainty learns to bend, what dazzles in the beginning grows quiet but deeper over time. Love is not fixed, it shifts, stretches, and reshapes itself to meet the people we become. What remains is not the spark alone, but the steady glow, the willingness to keep choosing each other as everything else changes.
Read MoreWhat remains implies not only that there was a past but that someone will be waiting in the future, ready and willing to bear witness to that past.
I was born into a world molded under the weight of war and conflict. Someone first had to teach me this about the world.
In elementary school, I asked my fourth grade history teacher why we only ever talked about wars. I didn’t understand why wars had to shape my understanding of the past or initiate me to the present…
Read MoreA scent can undo us. The cologne left in on a note in a sealed envelope, the aroma of their favorite food, the way a certain flower shifts the air. What remains in smell is closeness you can’t hold, but can’t deny.
Read MoreI used to think legacy was what you leave behind.
A list of things with your name on them. A highlight reel. A resume you can’t update anymore.
I thought it was buildings, titles, photos on somebody’s wall.
I thought it was the stories people told about you over barbecue and sweet tea, with just enough exaggeration to make you sound better than you were.
But here’s the thing about “behind”
it’s static.
Read MoreA song can collapse time. One chord, and suddenly you’re back in their car, their living room, their arms. What remains in music is memory disguised as melody… it knows how to find us where words can’t.
Read MoreWhat remains? That is question that this musing is centered around. Context? None really. Just a blank slate with a question staring at me. There are so many directions one could go with this so let me give it my best shot…
Read MoreEven years later, you can still feel a hand in yours, the weight of a hug, the absence where touch used to be. Touch is the most human language, and what remains is the ache for it, the ghost of warmth on skin.
Read MoreThe rarest kind of love isn't romantic. It's the bond that forms when two strangers decide to keep showing up for each other.
Friendship has no contracts, no obligations. You don't stay because of blood or attraction. You stay because, somehow, life feels lighter with them in it…
Read MoreSometimes it’s not the words we remember, but the pauses. The stillness at the dinner table after someone’s gone, the quiet in a car ride where we once filled the air with laughter. Silence is not empty, it holds memory like a container.
Read MoreIsaiah 40:8 (KJV):
"The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand for ever."
When we think about the temporary life we lead, we are always trying to fill it with things that mean something to us, things that make life worth living, and things that make up for the emptiness we feel when there is nothing left but us and our stuff. Yet, in the quiet moments, we are confronted with a sobering truth: the things we cling to our possessions, our careers, our accomplishments, even our own strength are like grass that withers and flowers that fade. They may bring temporary comfort, but they cannot endure.
Read MoreGrief doesn’t silence joy. Sometimes it sneaks out in the middle of missing someone, and for a second the ache softens. What remains in laughter is proof we’re still alive, still capable of carrying both sorrow and joy at once.
Read MoreNicole is a friend with whom I’ve shared grief and growth, and her words here carry both the personal and the collective. From Guam, she speaks with the voice of her Chamorro heritage, honoring scars that run through her people’s history while lifting up the resilience, culture, and memory that remain. What she shares is not only her truth, but an opening for us to pause, remember, and listen.
Read MoreMorning always comes, even when grief tries to convince us otherwise. Light seeps through curtains, spills across kitchen floors, glows in a candle wick. What remains in light is possibility, the proof that darkness doesn’t win forever.
Read MoreSome people have passed on, and I think about it daily.
A wind chime on someone’s porch, a western movie, certain types of snacks, flowers dancing in the wind, and corny jokes only we understood
These are memories I share with a special loved one. I miss her dearly.
Read MoreLoss doesn’t erase habit. The way we fold towels the way they taught us, the way we whisper a prayer before meals, or the way we pause at their favorite song. Rituals are echoes of love, we keep them going so we don’t forget.
Read MoreWhat remains…
A heart that is somehow is still hopeful, imperfectly mended, and ready for being loved properly,
A sense of resilience that life isn’t what happens to you, but what you have conquered…
Read MoreScars are proof. They don’t fade completely, and maybe they’re not supposed to. They remind us that we lived through something sharp and came out changed. What remains in scars is resilience disguised as tenderness.
Read MoreThe tree doesn’t know why I pour coffee at its base. Its branches lean over my mother’s grave. Coffee was her Sunday morning drink. After her Saturday evening wine.
“Don’t break my heart, boy.”
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