Between Bruises & Blooms

The sun did not ask permission
before pouring gold across the steeple.

It simply arrived,
wrapped the old church in fire,
and reminded the clouds
how to pray.

The cross reached upward,
not in desperation,
but in quiet certainty—
a weathered hand
still believing the sky listens.

I have stood outside places like this,
wondering if I belonged.

Wondering if cracked souls
are welcomed through old wooden doors,
or if they must first learn
how to hide their fractures.

But light has never cared
about perfection.

It spills through broken windows,
finds forgotten pews,
rests gently on worn floorboards,
and kisses every scar
without asking where it came from.

Perhaps that is what grace is.

Not being untouched.

But standing beneath an endless sky,
weathered by every season,
still reaching upward,

while the light
finds you anyway.