I didn’t want them there and yet here they were.

Constant reminders that face me at least twice a day.

The bridges of my fingers trailed each one.

Four mounds, raised melanin hills a shade darker than the rest of me on the landscape of my belly.

Buried in each, anguished tears for a dream that I never thought I wanted.

Tested faith.

A dance with God.

Each scar, the burial ground of





Today marks two years since I had a hysterectomy.

A difficult decision preceded and succeeded with much prayer (I was literally sitting in Jesus’s lap), therapy, pastoral counseling and numerous assurances from Phil that he would rather a healthy wife than the one in front of him willing to have his children. Phil joined me in Jesus’ lap and we both rested there.

The journey to that decision was painful and yet freeing.

I know, oxymoron, but freedom isn’t without its fair share of pain.

It was a decision that select few people knew about and that some didn’t understand. But God was in every single detail before that decision was even a thought.

As God’s children it’s easy to forget who we are and the beauty of whose we are and while I prayed that I wouldn’t have these scars I’m glad He didn’t listen to me.

The scars remind me that I was never alone.

They remind me of His assurance.

They remind me of his provisions.

They remind me of the “framily” He positioned me with.

They remind me of his strength when I literally felt depleted.

They remind me of His PROMISES so I could keep fighting.

They remind me to rest, and to wait on Him.


The grave of dreams but also the birthplace of hope.