Pilgrimage

I carry sorrows as if they were seasons, and gathered blessings like rain in open hands. I watch hours slip away like shadows, and held close the ones that taught me how to remain. The future is a veil I cannot lift, yet in the hush between two heartbeats, I hear a voice, older than light, whisper: “You were breathed from my breath; you will return to my keeping.” If death should come as thunder at the door, or as a hush that softly calls me home, I will not meet it with fear, but with the small and honest songs of my soul. Forgive my unfinished pages, my stumbling footprints in the clay — I will gather them gently, and lay them in Your hands along the way. For I am a passerby in time. For though the hour is hidden, one truth shines near: the hand that set the stars in motion will cradle my fear. So when the dark leans closer and the world folds into silence, I will go as a pilgrim, toward a Name I have loved in my dreams. Certain that every road I walked was leading me home.