A poem inspired by pursuing a life of purity
No one tells you that conviction can feel like grief,
Not the grief of losing something you had
but the grief of touching things you were never permitted to keep.
So you learn to open your hands.
Again.
And again.
And again.
You meet people who are kind,
people who are beautiful,
people who make your heart lean forward
for the first time in a long while.
And then comes the dividing line.
The place where affection meets allegiance.
The place where desire asks, "Will you bend?"
And conviction answers, "I cannot."
Not because you do not want to, not because your heart is made of stone.
Not because loneliness does not visit you in the quiet hours of the night.
But because there are promises you made before God that cost too much to abandon.
So you walk away.
And no one sees the funeral.
No flowers, no condolences.
No one gathers to mourn the life that might have been.
Only you.
Only God.
Only another dream, laid gently on an altar.
And after a while, you grow tired.
Tired of beginnings.
Tired of introductions.
Tired of explaining why some doors remain closed.
Tired of wondering whether faithfulness is wisdom
or whether you have simply become afraid.
Yet somewhere beneath the questions,
beneath the weariness,
beneath the tears you cannot always explain, a quiet resolve remains:
I would rather wait in obedience than arrive through compromise.
I would rather stand alone with peace than hold a hand while grieving my convictions.
So I remain.
Not fearless.
Not unaffected.
Not always strong.
But still here.
Still trusting.
Still believing that the God who asked for my obedience has not forgotten my desire.
And until His answer comes,
I will keep standing, even when standing hurts.