𝒮𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝕀 𝕣𝕚𝕤𝕖.

During my quiet time, the word 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 caught my attention.

𝒮𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁, typically expressed in the context of quietness whispered a new meaning to me, 𝓡𝓮𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮. I will admit that I am not particularly fond of this word because of the baggage it carries. Its meaning is not pretty. It does not paint the picture of sunshine and flowers for me. But this time, it hit different.

From the recesses of my mind, I heard Maya Angelou’s Still I rise, and perceived a shift in my heart.

While still treading the soft, yet imposing waves of Maya’s words narrating the lows of defeat, and the highs of triumphs, the Holy Spirit reminded me of Mark 4:8, “still other seeds fell on fertile soil, and they sprouted, grew, and produced a crop that was thirty, sixty and even a hundred times as much as had been planted.” 

And I thought yes. Still I rise.

In my life, there have been many seeds planted that didn’t yield. Some fell on rocky places with no substance, others along paths that left them exposed to the elements, and then there were the few, swallowed up by life happenings. 𝒮𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 there were seeds that fell on good soil, and the fruits have been gifts that keep on giving.

Maya’s words took me on a journey, one that for a time was on a long stretch of rough terrains, but at the end, I was met with the brilliance of the rising sun.

Jesus. He is who met me at the end of that road. He is why I was able to see beauty even in my beaten state. He is why I am confident that there is hope in the ashes. He is why I walk like i’ve got oil wells pumping in my living room. His word is that well. He is why I laugh like i’ve got gold mines diggin’ in my own backyard. His presence is gold. He is why I dance like I’ve got diamonds at the meeting of my thighs. His heart reveals my worth. He is why into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear I rise, holding steadfast to His promise that joy comes with the morning |Psalm 30:5|.

Jesus was tested, but he was 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝒾𝓁𝒾𝑒𝓃𝓉. He was hated for no real reason, lied on, rejected, spat on, slapped, insulted, dragged on dirt roads, laughed at, and murdered 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 (on the third day), he rose.

He rose that I may rise.

He rose that you may rise.

𝒮𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁, rise. Rise darling, rise.

Happy Monyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay! 🎉

Beacoup love,

Mel.

Image – @pinterest