The Ache and the Homecoming

For countless years, my restless lower self wandered the timeless corridors of longing—carrying the perennial ache: Why was this body called into being? What unseen dream, what secret, rests quietly within my skin? I loved God as a mighty Creator—distant, veiled, always beyond the highest peaks of my prayers. My longing stretched to fill an endless sky; each plea and poem became an arrow sent out toward a beloved, unreachable sun. There were nights when my soul, exhausted and circling the same questions, did not yet know that the ache itself was a hidden grace—a secret fire quietly kindling at the heart of being. This yearning, far from a flaw, was the slow immolation teaching me that longing is itself a pathway—revealing, again and again, how the very ache I carried was already the whisper of home.

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