Above All, I Rise

I taught little hands
to stretch paint across paper,
to look beyond the shape—
beyond what the eye could easily see
and search for something invisible.

The presence of God. The presence of the other

In the curve of a line.
In the glow of a color.
In the quiet pulse of creation.

I didn't always know how to explain faith.

I think faith came to me gradually, and pretty obvious.

When I hear of the  father's love
through friends in South Carolina
whose lives have been dancing alongside mine
for more than twenty years.

They became family.

Not by blood,
but through laughter,
through prayer,
through meals and celebrations,
through the slow weaving of one life into another.

We visited each other.

We celebrated together.

We leaned on one another
through storms and sunshine.

For more than twenty years,
life kept giving us reasons to remain connected.

Then the world shifted.

COVID came.

The miles suddenly felt longer.

The familiar rhythms disappeared.

Visits stopped.

Hugs became memories.

The silence left an echo
where someone's presence used to be.

But even in that absence,

I rise.

I don't always rise because I am strong.

Sometimes I rise because I have no other choice.

Sometimes I rise because there is still a classroom waiting.

Little hands waiting for paint.

A blank sheet of paper waiting to become something.

Sometimes I rise because somewhere inside me
there is still a voice saying,

Get up.

Keep going.

Art becomes prayer.

The brushstroke becomes breath.

Every color becomes a hymn
to a love that refuses to disappear.

A love that survives distance.

A love that survives silence.

A love that survives the changing shape of our lives.

God remains.

Time may scatter our bodies.

It may move us across cities,
across states,
across countries.

It may turn daily conversations into occasional phone calls
and familiar faces into photographs.

But the heart remembers.

Love threads itself through decades.

Through classrooms.

Through friendships.

Through children with paint on their hands.

Through people who stayed.

Through people who left.

Through seasons of silence.

And above all,

I rise.

Above circumstances.

Above fear.

Above distance.

Above the things I cannot control.

I rise because I have learned that absence is not always abandonment.

Sometimes love remains even when the person is no longer in the room.

Sometimes God is most visible in what remains.

In a friend who calls.

In a child who discovers color for the first time.

In a painting that somehow says what I cannot.

In the quiet after everything becomes still.

In every fold of color,

in every breath,

in every quiet hour,

God's presence waits.

And I am reminded—

We are never truly alone.

An extract from the book, Inside A Blackhead by Julio Desmont