This Morning, Like Water

7.24.25 Morning Watch 4:53 am

Ephesians 2:10
Matthew 3:6
Romans 6:3–5

This morning opened like deep water. Still, cool, off-key somehow. I let it sit. I didn’t reach for resolution. Just stayed with it.

Baptism keeps showing up. Not just in scripture. It’s in the breath, in letting go, in the grief that’s slow to name itself. John baptized not to punish, but to bury. That always stands out. He treated repentance as something you could lay down, mark as finished, and sink beneath the surface. The beginning didn’t come until something ended.

Neurodivergent souls know what it is to carry weight that never belonged to them. The pressure to pass, to perform, to comply. And the long, quiet work of release. Of trusting that surrender isn’t failure.

Resurrection doesn’t wear a uniform.
It unfolds strangely, sensorially, sacredly.
We rise as we are—unmatched, mysterious, textured by grace.

I’ve stopped expecting transformation to be clean or dramatic. It’s slower than that. Rough-edged. Holy in ways I can't explain.
Burial isn't the end. God receives what’s finished and brings new growth.
I ask now for resurrection that doesn’t need translation. I trust it will find its own shape.

Let me know if you'd like this version anchored even further—less theological, more physical, or shaped by a different kind of silence. We can keep adjusting until it feels lived in.