Girl Kaleidoscope

Tag: Poetry

  • Faith in the Fog

    I used to think faith looked like fire —
    bright, bold, unmistakable.
    I thought it would always burn hot in my chest, always feel like certainty, always sound like singing.

    But lately, faith feels more like fog.

    Not gone, just… harder to hold.

    I still believe — but now, belief looks quieter. It looks like choosing to stay
    even when I don’t feel anything. Even when the sky doesn’t answer back.

    I wake up some mornings and whisper,
    “Are You still here?”
    Not because I doubt He exists,
    but because I can’t feel Him
    like I used to.

    There was a time when I would hear Him
    in every song,
    see Him in every sunrise,
    sense Him in every silent moment.

    Now, the silence feels heavier.
    Now, prayer feels like writing letters
    with no return address.

    And honestly, sometimes I feel like I’ve been left on read —
    not just by heaven,
    but by the people I trusted most.

    Rejection came from the places I never expected.
    Friends who turned away
    when I was too much, too broken, too inconvenient.
    A soulmate who wouldn’t walk with me
    through the messy truth of what happened —
    the trauma, the abuse, the parts of my story that aren’t tidy enough for newsletters.

    I was left to carry it alone.
    Ashamed.
    Exposed.
    Unchosen.

    And yet —
    even in all that,
    God never turned His face from me.

    He didn’t flinch.
    He didn’t walk away.
    He never said, “This is too much.”

    That’s the thing about fog.
    You can’t always see who’s standing beside you.

    But that doesn’t mean you’re alone.

    Faith is not the absence of fog.
    It’s the decision to walk through it anyway.

    Not with boldness, always —
    sometimes just with breath.

    Sometimes faith is a single step.
    A whispered prayer.
    A choice to keep the light on,
    even when the room feels empty.

    God isn’t less present in the fog.
    He’s just… less obvious.

    Like breath on glass,
    like wind through branches —
    still there.
    Still moving.
    Still holding.

    There’s a verse I come back to, over and over:

    “For we live by faith, not by sight.” (2 Corinthians 5:7)

    It’s easier to quote than to live.
    But maybe that’s the whole point.

    Maybe real faith is forged here —
    in the grey,
    in the waiting,
    in the long nights where nothing makes sense,
    but we show up anyway.

    I don’t have clarity today.
    But I do have a candle.
    I do have breath.
    I do have the ache that reminds me I’m still alive
    and somehow, still reaching for God
    even when I can’t feel Him reach back.

    And maybe that’s enough for now.

  • I Built a Heart Upon the Air

    I Built a Heart Upon the Air

    I built a heart upon the air,
    Each breath a thread, each whisper fair,
    A tapestry of hopes and dreams,
    A vision born from love’s soft beams.

    With fragile hands I wove each part,
    A fragile thing, a fragile heart,
    Through tears and laughter, joy and pain,
    I shaped it in the softest rain.

    I wove the threads from distant light,
    From hopes that soared, from winds so bright,
    I fashioned it of silken strands,
    A promise placed in trembling hands.

    Each note of hope, a golden strand,
    I wove it high upon the land,
    The breeze it swayed, the stars they sang,
    As joy and sorrow softly rang.

    But shadows rose to steal my dream,
    And whisper words that coldly gleam,
    That hearts of air must fall, must break,
    For nothing pure can ever wake.

    And though I hoped, I knew the sound—
    Of my heart crumbling to the ground.
    Could you see me? Could you know—
    The weight of love, the weight of woe?

    And still, I wait in quiet grief,
    To find some solace, some relief,
    Will you hear my quiet plea?
    Or am I lost upon the sea?

    The heart I built is all but dust,
    It crumbles now, it turns to rust.
    Will love remain or fade from sight?
    Will hearts of air still take to flight?

    I built a heart upon the air,
    Each breath a thread, each whisper fair,
    And though it’s gone, I still believe
    In hearts that soar, and hearts that grieve.

    For even when the threads are torn,
    We rise again, reborn, reborn.
    And though my heart may fall again,
    I’ll build it once—then once again

  • Becoming Strangers

    We spoke in whispers, soft and low,
    In laughter’s light, in embers’ glow.
    In quiet prayers and silver streams,
    We wove our hearts, we built our dreams.

    You knew my fears, my weary sighs,
    The light that danced behind my eyes.
    You held my hope, you knew my name,
    Before the silence, before it changed.

    I did not choose to walk away,
    But winds arose, I could not stay.
    The tether snapped, the distance grew,
    And love turned ghostly, pale and blue.

    I knocked, I called, I sent my plea,
    But doors don’t open without a key.
    And echoes fade behind cold walls,
    No matter how a heartbeat calls.

    Yet if I spoke, it would be low,
    A whisper soft, a sorrowed glow.
    If I could see you, just once more,
    I’d smile like I had done before.

    Not for the ache, not for the pain,
    But for the love that still remains.

  • The Weight of Community

    Missionary work is often spoken of in terms of sacrifice—leaving behind the familiar, stepping into the unknown, giving of oneself for a higher purpose. What is less discussed is the complexity of the community itself—the way relationships are not only formed but also scrutinized, the way expectations press in from all sides, and the way personal lives can become the subject of unwanted discussion.

    I arrived open-hearted, eager to contribute, ready to learn. But I quickly discovered that life among missionaries was not just about the work; it was about navigating an intricate web of expectations, where personal boundaries were often blurred. Questions came freely, sometimes under the guise of concern, other times with a quiet insistence that made it clear they were not really questions at all. Where was I headed? What were my long-term plans? Was I committed to staying? These were not simple curiosities—they carried weight, an unspoken pressure to declare intentions before I had even found my footing.

    My relationships, too, became a subject of discussion beyond my control. Conversations I had not yet had for myself were already being speculated on in forums where I was unprepared to address them. Older missionaries—some with good intentions, others with a sense of authority—pried into matters I would have preferred to keep private. They dissected my choices, offered unsolicited advice, and sometimes spoke as though they had a stake in decisions that belonged to me alone.

    I wanted to be helpful, to contribute, to prove that I belonged. But my efforts were not always met with encouragement. At times, my willingness to step in and assist was seen not as a strength but as something to be tempered—as if I needed to be reminded of my place. I learned that offering help did not always mean being welcomed. Sometimes, it was taken as a challenge, as if my presence unsettled the unspoken order of things.

    And yet, even in the midst of these challenges, there were those who brought light. Kind souls—often from outside the circles I was part of—offered gentle conversations, safe places where I could be honest about my struggles without fear of judgment. They checked in, brought quiet understanding, and reminded me that not everyone operated by the same unspoken rules. When the weight of expectations became too much, they provided sanctuary. They were the ones who saw me not as a project to be managed, but as a person to be cared for.

    Looking back, I do not fault those who asked too much of me, who pried where they shouldn’t have, who unknowingly added to my burdens. They were part of a system that had shaped them, just as it had begun to shape me. But I see now that support is not just about expectation—it is about presence. It is about listening without demanding answers, offering guidance without insisting on control, and creating space for growth rather than forcing a path.

    And for those who did that—for those who simply sat with me, walked alongside me, and reminded me that I was not alone—I will always be grateful.

  • The Realities of Mission Life

    I didn’t grow up dreaming of a life in missions. My journey into the field wasn’t the culmination of a lifelong calling but rather an unexpected turn. For years, I worked in the background, immersed in the stories of others. Eventually, I was given the opportunity to visit—not to stay, but to see firsthand what our missionaries were doing.

    I traveled to multiple locations, meeting people from all walks of life: those serving tirelessly on the ground and those they served. But what began as a short visit to observe grew into something much more profound. It became a season that stretched me in ways I couldn’t have anticipated—a season of brokenness and beauty.

    The moment I stepped off the plane, Papua New Guinea introduced itself with force. The air carried the acrid bite of burning rubbish, mingling with the sticky weight of tropical heat. The unforgiving roads jolted my body, while rocks thudded against walls and vehicles, startling me into hyper-awareness. Bugs and vermin were everywhere, turning even my pillow into contested ground.

    The township itself felt like an endless assault on my senses: the hum of generators during power cuts, the dust that clung to my skin and clothes, the stares that followed me through every supermarket aisle. I had never felt so seen, yet so invisible, all at once.

    But as disorienting as the physical environment was, it wasn’t the hardest part of the journey.

    What I hadn’t expected was how difficult life within the missionary community itself could be. Living and working in such close quarters blurred the lines between public and private life. There were constant expectations—to bring a meal for the shared table after a long day, to attend every gathering, to fit seamlessly into a community where everyone seemed to know their place.

    I struggled to find mine.

    There were whispered judgments, or at least the suspicion of them, and I withdrew further with each passing day. The isolation wasn’t just cultural—it was relational. I felt like an outsider among my neighbours and colleagues, the very people I was supposed to lean on.

    Yet even in the hardest moments, there were glimpses of grace.

    A friend would invite me for a quiet walk, away from the noise and dust. Another would sit with me in stillness, offering their presence rather than advice. These small acts of kindness became lifelines, softening the edges of an experience that often felt unbearably sharp.

    And then, there was love.

    Amid the chaos, I had someone who saw me—not as the missionary, the outsider, or the white woman out of her depth, but as me. It was unexpected and unplanned, a magical soul connection in the gutter of the world. In a place that often felt hostile and alien, I experienced the warmth of being known, the tenderness of being loved, and the hope of something beautiful growing in the most unlikely of places.

    That love didn’t erase the challenges, but it offered a light that cut through the shadows. It reminded me that even in the darkest, most isolating seasons, there are moments of beauty worth holding on to.

    Mission work is often presented in stories of transformation and triumph, but the truth is far more complex. It’s a tangle of beauty and brokenness, connection and isolation, courage and weariness.

    For me, it was all of these things. It was the stench of burning rubbish and the sweetness of love. It was the ache of loneliness and the joy of finding someone who truly saw me. It was a season of breaking and rebuilding, of holding both the unbearable and the extraordinary.

    To those supporting missionaries: don’t stop at the surface. Pray for more than their work. Ask about their hearts, their struggles, their moments of joy and despair. A simple message or a word of encouragement can mean more than you know.

    And to those in the field: you are not alone. Even in the darkest, most isolating moments, there is grace to be found. Sometimes it’s in a kind word, sometimes in a shared laugh, and sometimes it’s in the profound connection of being truly seen. And sometimes, you can be that light for someone else.