I am not self-made.
I am God-made—
Shaped by mercy,
Sketched in grace,
A masterpiece still in progress,
Signed by love in unseen places.
He is the Author of my becoming,
Penning lines I would never write,
Turning broken chapters into sacred ones,
And weaving sorrow with light.
Faith did not rise from my strength—
It rose from surrender.
And every page that bore my pain
Now bears His presence,
Written in ink that does not fade.
I am a story
Still unfolding.
Not perfect—
But perfected in His hands.
Not finished—
But filled with purpose.
Through brush and word,
Through canvas and verse,
I echo the One
Who first imagined beauty
And called it good.
So if you find light in these lines,
Or healing in these hues,
It is not because I am strong—
But because He is near.
And because He is still writing.