I’m in the garden,
I’ve fallen quiet among the roses.
The air feels different here,
like it remembers you all at once.
I see… I see,
but everything looks softer now,
as if the world is trying
not to break me again.
I lift my eyes to the sky and whisper,
God, why did You take my roses?
Why more than one,
why so close together,
why before I learned
how to live without them?
When will I see them again?
Tell me this isn’t the end.
Tell me love doesn’t disappear—
it only waits.
My thoughts pull me downward,
slow, like sinking into the earth
where you now rest.
I don’t fight the feeling.
I just ask why,
until the question becomes a prayer.
I search my life for mistakes,
counting moments,
replaying words.
Where did I go wrong?
What did I miss?
Was there something
I could have done differently?
And still—
even in this breaking—
I know the pieces of my heart
are with You, my God.
I placed them there myself,
because loving You
is easier than understanding You.
But God, my heart hurts.
It hurts in the quiet hours,
in the mornings that feel too empty,
in the spaces
where their voices used to bloom.
Why did You pluck my roses so soon?
They were still growing.
I was still learning their names,
their colors,
the way they leaned toward the light.
I tell myself You know better than me.
I say it softly,
like it might hear me.
Like belief is something
I can practice until it stays.
Some nights I sit in the garden alone
and miss them all at once.
No anger.
No answers.
Just love with nowhere to go
and nowhere to place it.
So when will I know the reason?
Will You ever tell me?
Or is this the kind of truth
You only understand
after time has passed,
after the garden has learned
how to bloom again?
Until then,
I’ll stay here among the roses—
loving what You gave me,
mourning what You took,
and trusting You
even while my heart breaks open
