Dear Creator: The Tension of Being Human

Notes from the Hollow Bone | entry nineteen

Dear Creator

I did not mean for this to become ritual.
But like breath,
like heartbeat,
it found me morning and night,
until gratitude became second nature.

At dawn, my words are an opening—
an invitation into the day.
At night, they are surrender—
a laying down of all I carried.
And in between,
you send reminders through quiet pauses,
through the nudge of angels,
to stop,
to notice,
to thank.

Yet even in this rhythm,
I am still so human.
Flawed.
Distracted.
Pulled by ego,
by the endless weight of emotion.
There are nights I forget.
Mornings when fear gets louder than faith.
Moments when my first thought
is not kindness,
but judgment,
defense,
or doubt.

But you see all of me.
You see the mess, the ache, the weakness—
and still,
you love me.

And it is that love,
constant, unflinching,
that draws me back to gratitude,
that teaches me humility,
that makes me want to be more
than the sum of my impulses.

You are my compass,
my anchor,
my breath.
And though I am not always faithful,
you are.

This is why I pray.
Why I whisper thanks in the car,
on unfamiliar roads,
in borrowed rooms,
in moments when I feel so small.

Because I know you are there,
and in you,
even as flawed and human as I am—
I am enough.

With Grace & Ink,
Mai