When the Heart Makes Room

Remaining Until the Spirit Breathes Within

Do not make even grace your possession.

Do not grasp what is given.

Because the Spirit does not remain

where He is held as an object.

He comes where there is space.

And space is born

when we allow even the most sacred things

to pass through our hands without clinging.

⸻

So the life becomes very simple.

You receive the day.

You do not flee the small humiliations hidden within it.

You let your thoughts come and go

without enthroning them.

You stand before God as you are—

often distracted,

often tired,

often uncertain.

And you do not turn away.

⸻

Nothing seems to happen.

In fact, it may feel as though less is happening than before.

But beneath this poverty,

something begins.

A life not constructed.

A prayer not produced.

A warmth not claimed.

Quietly,

without drawing attention to itself,

the Spirit moves.

⸻

And one day—though you may not be able to say when—

you realize that something within you

has begun to live.

Not with force.

Not with clarity.

But with a kind of hidden steadiness.

You are still poor.

Still incomplete.

Still without answers.

But you remain.

And in that remaining,

the prayer of the heart begins to form

without your making it.

⸻

It is then that the simplest words

become enough.

Not as a conclusion,

but as a place to stand:

You have the words of eternal life.

Or even less:

Let it be done.

⸻

And the Spirit,

who was never absent,

is finally given room

to breathe within you.