Uninvited Rain

Today I am writing from a place of…
…quiet ache. Not loud grief, not righteous anger—just that subtle weight of having been misnamed by someone who never asked my name.
The Encounter
I was approached, not with curiosity, but contempt.
Words rained down that I did not invite.
I did not shrink. I did not shout.
But something in me folded—
not in defeat,
but like a note placed gently
into the pocket of God's robe.
"Though an army encamp against me, my heart shall not fear." — Psalm 27:3
Unfolding
The note remains.
Unread by the one who accused.
Read intimately by the One who called.
No retort needed. No defense given.
I wonder—how long have I carried the ache of being misread?
And why does each new injury trace the same scar, even if the hand is different?
Presence
I am still here.
Not the same, but not undone.
The soil of me holds roots the storm cannot reach.
Naming
What does it mean to be faithful when your offering is spit out?
Not to reframe it, not to explain it,
but to let it be
as it was:
enough,
true,
not for them.