I never imagined I’d write poetry — let alone share it. In school, I avoided it like the plague, and always thougt myself a "bad write." Yet, over the past few years, the Holy Spirit has led me to write in ways that some might call poetic, as I’ve navigated seasons of change, growth, and challenge.
The following poem — along with the one I’ll share next week — is the fruit of a year’s worth of prayer and reflection on Marriage. In my post, The Blessing of Vulnerability: Loving in the Light of Truth, which I originally wrote in the summer of 2023 as an engaged woman, I recounted an encounter with my now husband. That experience became a window into the ongoing reality of encountering Christ the Bridegroom through the love of my earthly bridegroom. These poems express that same unfolding mystery.
I never set out to write poetry — certainly not two versions of the same poem. The version below took shape over the first four months of Marriage, a period marked by awkwardness, adjustments, and the growing pains of learning to share life — and space — with another. Living together felt strange, and our tiny studio apartment didn’t exactly help matters.
More than the usual bumps that come with merging two lives, I struggled most with conflict and reconciliation. Who am I kidding — I still struggle.
During our time of dating and engagement, disagreements came and went, but the natural separation that existed allowed me to cling to old habits — namely, avoiding and escaping conflict. When tensions flared, I could retreat to my own space, gather my thoughts, and press reset.
For as long as I can remember, my instinct during conflict was to retreat. As a child, I’d run to my room and hide in my closet. After my reversion to the faith, I traded my closet for the Adoration chapel. I was taught — through youth group and ministry — that when life feels overwhelming, I should run to Jesus. And I did.
But in the first few months of marriage, I realized that running away during conflict wasn’t an option anymore. When I left, I wasn’t just leaving a room — I was leaving someone behind. And that someone was my husband. I remember the look on his face during one particular argument, watching his expression shift as I put on my shoes and coat, heading out to escape to Adoration. While part of me genuinely wanted space to cool off and pray, the Lord gently revealed something deeper — my “escape” wasn’t a holy pursuit of peace. It was fear, wrapped in pious disguise.
I wasn’t seeking Jesus with trust — I was ducking for cover, coping through avoidance.
This realization was sobering. I hadn’t fully considered how my actions were affecting not only my husband but also the Lord. Yes, I was hurting my spouse, but in a deeper way, I was wounding Christ. Though His mercy is boundless, His Sacred Heart feels the weight of our sins. Like anyone who loves deeply, Christ is hurt when we manipulate — especially when we invoke His name to justify it.
I didn’t want to admit it, but I was using Christ as a shield to avoid dealing with my emotions. Instead of seeking Him for true connection and communion — to heal my wounds and grow in love for my husband — I was simply running away from uncomfortability. Rather than drawing closer to both Christ and my husband, I was creating more distance, layering avoidance with the appearance of holiness.
Coming home after fleeing conflict, I braced for coldness or frustration, expecting to find anger. But each time, I was met with tenderness. My husband has this beautiful way of holding me accountable while offering mercy. He let me know it wasn’t okay to run, but he did so with love — gently, patiently, and without reproach.
That tenderness changed me.
This poem is born from that experience — the quiet revelation that Marriage mirrors the grace of God, often in the most ordinary moments. It is a reflection on conflict, vulnerability, and the way love can transform wounds. It is a tribute to my husband, yes, but also to the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony itself — the place where I continue to encounter salvation, over and over again, as I allow grace to reshape me.
True Love, Dare I Believe?
Version 1
Love me as I am, yet don’t let me stay the same. For I know to be whole, I must grow and change.
I cannot stand the ground where I stand, Though my pride resists, and my will clenches its hand. Still, I see your love reaching out to me— A beacon beyond this forsaken wasteland.
But I hesitate. I tremble. What’s the catch? Where are the strings? When will the weight of disappointment bring me again to my knees?
I’m waiting—waiting for you to fail me. This homeland you promise, this place of rest, Could it be the promised land prophets once professed?
There I go again, foolishly letting hope rise— But fear, like a shadow, washes over my eyes. I shrink from the light and retreat from your grace, Clutching the remnants of shame I cannot erase.
True love—how could it be? Surely, fairytales are not for one like me. I’ve compromised my dignity, so I resign to fate, Closing my heart’s door, sealing the gate.
Yet, in the hour I surrender to despair, You arrive, unwavering, casting light in the air. With power and gentleness, you lift me from the deep, Placing me on ground that is steady beneath my feet.
Eyes wide open, disbelief floods my mind— How could you still choose to stay by my side? You lift your hand, revealing the ring you wear, And I dare to believe… perhaps I belong there.
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