I don’t know what to say..

I’ve been having conversations with friends about the current state of the world and what it means for our future generations. In having those conversations, I’ve experienced grief, sadness, anger, hope.

I know it won’t always be this way.

I want to do something. I don’t want to be a sitting duck. So, I write. I read. I create by Your grace. I try my best to remind myself and others to put on love, above all else—to focus on the heart of Christ, so our hearts might begin to look like Yours.

But somehow, I feel like a drop in an ocean of noise.

I don’t question my worth or the impact of the Holy Spirit coursing through my veins. However, I do wonder what it would be like if we, collectively, just paused for a moment—one inhale and one exhale.

To remember the source of the breath in our lungs.
To remember the love of Genesis 1.

No, I’m not trying to escape. I see, I hear and can discern the times we’re in.

But what would it be like if we all just took a moment to remember
that we are to love our brother,
our neighbor,
our friend?

Love.

Not the fabricated kind, or the kind that thrives in an aesthetic.
Love that tells the truth.
Love wrapped in compassion.
Love that holds both sides accountable.

Love.

Not the cutesy kind—though that has its place too.
But the kind that speaks to the outcasts and the ones far away.

Love that sets the table for a Passover meal with a few unhoused friends—stepping into their world for just a moment. Listening. Praying for their journey ahead. Allowing space for humanity and honesty.

So I pray.

I pray that though we may not have a solution,
we don’t become the very thing we’re fighting against.

My heart cries, in a way only You could hear.

I feel it before I even understand it—
a tightening in my chest.

Like a quiet, internal wringing,
with nowhere for the insides of my heart to go.

Pressure builds in my chest,
like a volcano waiting to erupt from my eyes
as I make my tea.

There, at my kitchen counter—
waiting for the kettle to whistle,
pouring hot water over these loose leaves.

Feet bound to the cold wood floor beneath me.
Spiraling through a future I can feel
but can’t yet see.

I couldn’t hold it back anymore.

With groanings too deep for words.

Not spoken.
Still understood.

Without notice, prayers flow from my eyes—
running down my cheeks.

Salty enough to preserve the moment.

No need to suppress.
You already know what’s in my heart.
You knew that volcano would erupt one day soon.

I’d rather stay in this moment than run from it.

Stay here
and let You finish the work You started in my heart.
Bring clarity to my mind.

I don’t need words to describe the way my skin tightens when I know You’re here— how, from the weight of Your presence, I must cover my face.

I won’t run away from you, God.

I need You.
I lay all of this at Your feet.

You said to remember You are with us until the end of the age.

You left me with that promise.

You are with me.
You never left me.

Whether I’m having conversations with friends, heartbroken over headlines, or standing at the counter making tea while tears fall from my eyes—

thank You for this heart of flesh, Lord.

On earth, as it is in heaven.

You heard every word I couldn’t say.

In Jesus’ name,
amen.

If this met you in a quiet place,
you’re welcome to stay.

everything can’t go with you
every thing can’t go with you

it’s worthwhile to be honest with ourselves about our needs
our capacity
what we can actually be
see,
if I tried to carried you on my shoulders
guaranteed it would only last a while
the weight of your disposition
would reposition my vision

I can’t see clearly.
I can’t hear clearly.

brain foggy.
chest heavy.

my spirit feels the weight of my flesh 
and for as long as you hitchhike this vessel of mine with identities mismatched from what God placed at the beginning of time

there’s bound to be stagnation
no direction, side quests turned dummy missions
as the weight of saying yes to you feels like betrayal
feels like trading freedom for bondage
feels like the when butterflies in stomach turned vomit

you infiltrate my thoughts with ideas that weren’t there
like, how did I even get here?
this is why I have to cling to The Truth
because if left up to you
I would crumble under the weight of your blues.

so, no, you’re not invited. 

Sometimes, no scratch that, all times we have to speak directly to the thing that tries to oppress us. The muzzle is no longer on my mouth. I’m here to be honest and tell truth in love.

that means boundaries.

that means accountability.

enough with the fluff.

If the trees could talk, I wonder what stories they'd tell—
in finite pieces, 
because put together is too large for us to trust.

They know our nature...
formed from the same elements
yet the weight of the worlds we created 
continue to turn us to dust.

Still, they remain,
serving us even in our unbelief
waiting for us to notice
what they see.

They would tell of the moments you visit—
how the salt of your tears seeped into their roots,
traveled through their veins,
forming rings of memory
pressed close by years that refuse to leave.

Again and again, time built form
later cut apart
to built your home.

Maybe they'd speak the words 
you tried to hold back in your mind, 
and the bitter ones 
you spat on the forest floor that time.

I wonder what they'd say 
if we gathered 'round their feet— 
what they might confess
about the night Jesus prayed in Gethsemane

Perhaps they would tell us
how they yearn for our warmth in the winter
and our embrace in the spring,
how our exhales make their flowers bloom
and how they're inspired by us too
when we show them what not to do.

They've watched all we've crafted—
and even our habit 
of discarding our sins in the soil,
as if what is hidden won't form something new
as if the ground itself does not cry out too.

They've seen the way we crowd spaces 
instead of making room,
for our limbs to reach high like theirs
praising the One who truly cares.

So if the trees could talk,
perhaps they wouldn't accuse us at all—
maybe they would just turn our gaze
maybe that was the point all along....

Look up.

Scripture references: Psalm 19:1-4; Romans 1:18 - 23

I learned beauty, is a glass cage  
where fluorescent lights swing back and forth overhead 
and the rancid smell of day old coffee on metal tables in poorly ventilated rooms, revealed every flaw I’d try to hide. 

The prime suspect in the case of the missing rose.
Who in her slumber, cut clean from the others, thorns pruned, defense less
waiting for the one who could defend her, 
while they spectate her,
morning dew still dripping from her frame. 

Time and time again 
doors open
lights blare
two piece suits and black shoes 
tilted heads, searching,
in rooms full of spaces between darkness and light
with eyes trained to spot weakness.

I let myself be seen. 

Good cop bad cop copy systems 
they don’t know no better 
waiting for me to wither 
in this one way mirror 
laid the evidence from my thorns on the table as if looking at the scabs in which they were once held didn’t cause me enough pain.

Then there you came
my opportunity for prison break
walked in holding a briefcase like, "baby this will be a brief case."

You looked as if you recognized me 
from a place before the glass
before frames learned how to hold things still
before the rancid smell of day old coffee on metal tables in poorly ventilated rooms revealed every flaw I’d try to hide. 

Your gaze did not rush me for answers
standing there with a quiet confidence 
and hands that know how to wait.

You asked me if I could see it,
the rose steady wilting right before your eyes
your words like the warmth of the Son that made my petals bloom
a voice deep, yet tender, just like the Gardener in the vineyard… 
…that’s when I knew, He sent you.

Thank you for reading! This poem is inspired by the prompt: “let me tell you what it’s not…”

I thought about what being perceived feels like, and maybe what it would feel like when someone actually SEES me—beyond my beauty.

If you’d like to send over a quick thank you, here’s the link to buy me a coffee

I’ll write to you again soon.

~ Chérie

It would spiral into bouts of intensity followed by weeks of restraint—an internal pendulum swing that felt passionate at first, then exhausting. Unsustainable at best. I thought that was love, or chemistry, or something I was just supposed to endure. Lots of strategy and timelines, with very little real connection.

Anxious-avoidant attachment, they called it.

On Attachment

See some of us learned love as a tremble
an anxious reaching
a silent scan of the room

we learned to read pauses
to listen for shifts in tone
to offer more before being asked
just in case love required proving.

Our hearts learned to knock early and often
to offer every ounce at once
because somewhere along the way
we learned love could disappear mid-sentence.

Anxious attachment loves like a fire poured too quickly
captivating, devoted,
but scorching 
when there's no patience 
for the flame to settle to an ember.

Then some of us learned love as distance
as self-reliance, self-preservation,
as the art of needing nothing, 
or at least appearing so.

A love that builds homes with many exits
windows cracked, doors unlocked,
just in case closeness asks too much.

Avoidant love says, I want you,
but whispers, not too close
it confuses peace with absence
and safety with solitude.

Often, when the two find each other
they bond over shared wounds
open palms pressed together saying,
finally, someone who understands my pain.

Pain caused by lack inherited.

Intoxicating because it is familiar
but familiarity is not safety
and chaos is not intimacy
even if it feels good.

Healing begins when the trigger arrives
and we do not abandon ourselves
when we pause instead of perform
when we ask: 
am I grasping—or am I choosing?

Secure attachment
the slow exhale
the steady ground beneath bare feet

Secure love does not rush or retreat
it does not grip or vanish
it meets the moment as it is
honest, open, tender 
it trusts that what is real can breathe
holding all things loosely.

Like a lily pad resting on water
neither clinging nor floating away
not needing each other to exist
yet still they remain, together, by choice
mutual, curious, alive.

This kind of love says
I am whole, you are whole,
let’s see what grows if we stay.

God taught me this slower, more steadfast love
the kind that builds brick by brick
the kind received by choice
and deepened over time
the kind that holds people, outcomes, and timelines loosely
trusting that what is meant to stay
does not need to be chased—
or for me to run away.

Attachment & Our Walk with Christ

Anxious attachment can mirror a works-based faith:
Maybe if I do enough, God will see me as worthy.
—legalism, spiritual striving, even religious OCD.

Avoidant attachment can look like partial surrender:
God, You can have this part of me—but not that one.
—lukewarm faith, familiarity, routine.

Secure attachment looks like yielded trust:
God, you know the end from the beginning.
I trust you with my steps, my timing, my life.
—a surrendered faith.

What I’ve learned is that secure love
in all its forms
doesn’t arrive with intensity or apathy
it arrives with care, compassion, gentleness, self-control.

Good fruit.

The kind of love we only learn
by being in love with God.

When we get to the root of attachment,
dependency will also change.

Questions to ask yourself:

How do I respect another person’s boundaries
without playing dumb about my own?

How do I honor myself in the moment
without shrinking or overgiving?

Do I trust God with my joy?
What about my peace?

When I feel activated, what is my first impulse? to pursue, to withdraw, or to fix? what would it look like to pause for 90 seconds before responding?

What need am I hoping another person will meet in this moment, and how can I offer myself a portion of that care first?

No one is perfect.
But it is our responsibility
to unlearn harmful patterns
and relearn God’s design
for our experience on Earth.

My prayer for you is this:

That you may notice the difference between familiarity and safety.
That you stop mistaking intensity for intimacy
and begin trusting the quiet steadiness of what remains.

My prayer is that you learn to stay with yourself
when emotions rise—
that you choose presence over performance,
truth over strategy,
love over fear.

That God meets you in your lived experience.
That He teaches you a love that can breathe—
one that does not rush or retreat,
does not grip or vanish,
but holds all things loosely
and chooses to stay.

And may you come to know, deeply and gently,
that what is meant to stay
will not require chasing—
or running away.

Amen.

p.s., if this resonated, you’re welcome here. and if you’d like to support my writing this year or send over a quick thank you, here’s the link to buy me a coffee

I’ll write to you again soon.

~ Chérie

p.s.s, there was a time when I struggled so much with anxiety that it would turn into full blown panic attacks. These attacks didn’t care if I was driving a car, trying to sleep, in the middle of my work day. Nothing. It would just barge in. Constrict my air ways. Fill my body with heat. Open the tear ducts in my eyes. Cause my body to tremor. Until it had its way with me. Then, after it was gone, my body exhausted, I’d try to return to what’s ‘normal’.

I wrote a poem about it — the night I saw anxiety and tried to take authority over him in my weakness. Published on page 28 of The Flower Before The Fruit — my first poetry book.

I've been quiet since it all happened

I needed time
to process
to cry
to lay in a pool of tears
to pray

heart broken by what I see
present tense 
'cause it never ends

the daily divides
the lines
the your side
or mine
reality 
broken by time
we play pretend...

like it does not exist
so quick to move on to what’s next
and in context
what I'm referring to 
might be different to you
see
you see life through your lens
colored by the hue of your existence

Have we lost our humanity?
Have we forgotten our why?

Not one thing by accident
no thing in existence by chance
with every breath borrowed 
and every act of love holy

Sojourners on borrowed land
beings created to tend to
to steward good
be fruitful and multiply
love
joy
peace

patience
kindness
gentleness

goodness
faithfulness
self-control

Have we forgotten our true design?
Created in the image of the Most High

Yet still hiding our flesh behind fig leaves 
from the One who sees
all things

And it's not to deny the gift of your life or mine
but to see with new eyes
through new life
born again
with eternity in mind

Can't you see..
the condition of our hearts?
the systems falling apart?
Can't you see...
we can't run forever
and out pace our mirror...
Can't you see?

This piece is a part of a continuous body of work authored and published by Chérie J. Grant in 2025. All rights reserved.

Thank you for sitting with me beneath the flowers, where we grow, heal, and discover truth with a heart of love and eyes set on eternity. I offer this space as a shelter for your becoming. A space where silence speaks through written and spoken word, as we gently tend to what’s buried beneath the surface with the Holy Spirit as our guide. If my work resonates with you or offers support, I’d be grateful for every share, like, or comment. Because in the right hands, even the smallest seeds bloom.

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the highest exchange of currency

dwindled down to Tik Toks

on new fashioned clocks

where’s the quality in that anyway?

time.

stand.

still.

if you will, but the only constant is change

i know this because often times i feel deranged

perplexed even.. often stuck in a season…

as seasons come and …

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giving our mind a break allowing our heart to listen

poetry is…

an ever flowing river of soft turns along rough edges

a gentle rapid, guiding our innermost feelings

the ones shoved between the pages of an old journal

never to be spoken out loud

poetry is…

liberation

unlocking our hearts, uncaging our minds

freeing us from places that once held us hostage

poetry is…

the way God crafted the world into being

how He strung the stars among the skies

opened the clouds

the way He cracked the waves and breathed forth the earth

poetry is…

what I choose to offer the world

a glimpse of where my heart flows through my lips to meet your ears

believing the messages would softly enter as a reminder you’re never alone

poetry is…

the hush between heartbeats

where truth learns to sing

and words become more than a murmur

poetry is…

a prayer, stitched between syllables,

a way of saying stay when you can’t quite hold a hand

poetry is…

love

I believe when God breathed the Word and the world into existence that He thought of Love

I believe when God crafted man he blew breath into life…

Love…

It’s always love,

Chérie ~

A new segment of Beneath the Flowers

A sacred pause in the noise to get cozy, reflect, and connect with other storytellers - a place where poetry meets presence.

Here, we get to share what’s written in the stillness of faith, ache, healing, and hope.

Leave a comment

TIP 🫙 JAR

Before we jump into today’s post - how are you? You can leave a comment in the comment section of this post or send me a direct message. I’d love to connect! I hope Beneath the Flowers becomes a refuge, where you can finally lay down your armor and breathe.

Actually, let’s breathe.

Find your resting breath.

Inhale for 4.

Hold.

Read more

A segment of Beneath the Flowers

A sacred pause in the noise to get cozy, reflect, and connect with other storytellers - a place where poetry meets presence.

Here, we get to share what’s written in the stillness of faith, ache, healing, and hope.

May these words find you where you are and remind you that you’re never alone.

I’d like to re-introduce myself to you as the one you might’ve forgotten

thrown around city streets
among the remnants of time
tossed aside like the pieces of your past you dare not mention

broken, not shattered

it’s almost as if the ones who created me 

found me 

empty

full of opportunity...

they had vision
but their dreams I still couldn’t carry

discarded 

like the hope of something new wasn’t enough or what they’d longed for… 

still 

seems like my past is much like yours 

muffled along the quiet stillness of long roads of ideas and broken paths of things once hoped for…. 

rejected

mishandled by burdens of unresolved pain turned resentment disguised as love

yet here we are, together...

It's like when He created me

He created me to find you

wandering down this road He paved for us, where cares are swept away by the wind and washed away by the tide

knowing once your arms wrapped around my frame

we'd dwell in His love

creating

masterpieces 

from our broken ones 

stitched 

together 

by His grace, redeemed, and made anew. 

Share

I’d like to think when God created earth, he spoke it into existence through poetry. Delicately, intentionally crafting words with precision & love. Carefully considering the heart that would experience it ♡.

~ Chérie

A new segment of Beneath the Flowers

A sacred pause in the noise to get cozy, reflect, and connect with other storytellers - a place where poetry meets presence.

Here, we get to share what’s written in the stillness of faith, ache, healing, and hope.

May these words find you where you are and remind you that you’re never alone.

 i’m being honest...
i’m tired of keeping it all together.
 
why is it that the vulnerability 
and mere essence of our humanity 
gets vacuum sealed into a reality 
of robotics and theatrics?

this isn’t God’s design…

we need safe spaces to unravel and become undone…
maybe wires are supposed to cross
always having to hold it together 
maybe that’s what’s killing us
resistance to the tender parts of life
maybe that’s why we’re losing trust…

it’s all a façade isn’t it?

we get a week to grieve 
then we’re expected to bounce back 
like a yoyo, tossed back and forth 
gets tangled in the end.

no, i don’t want to talk. 
yes, i want you here...
i just need my space,
but don’t leave me in despair...

hold me….

i need safe spaces where i can unravel and become undone... 
like the fabric of woven tapestry
you start where i end gently, 
until the pieces of me 
are all we have left

hold me…

as I piece me 
back together 
tenderly 
one by one…

how are you really? if you feel led, i’d like to hold space for us in the comments below ~

Leave a comment

I’d like to think when God created earth, he spoke it into existence through poetry. Delicately, intentionally crafting words with precision & love. Carefully considering the heart that would experience it ♡.

Some doors only open once…
this life…
this family… 
each of us….
here just for a moment.

It’s as if God knew... 
the day he knit us together in our mother’s womb,
that we would be here, together.

Then in the blink of an eye, 
time goes
and love grows,
lives change
some get cropped out the picture frame,
decades pass
then we look up and take our last…b…

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Dedicated to those who seek Joy.

Young woman
lowly and kind,
satin bow in her hair.
Top of her class, the most beautiful stare. 
Deep desire lingered in her spirit and flesh…

JOY 

Covered in fine garments and adorned in jewels 
she thought, “this will do.” 
Deceived by her own innocence, 
creating a world where only she existed. 

Feelings of temporary satisfaction and fabricated joy 
enamored by the things of this world, 
so sweet and so coy she whispered, “please.. stay..” 

Yet another death and rebirth, again with her Savior, 
deep into the sands of time. 
Tired, tracing moments where she’d gone wrong 
solely focused on the corporate climb.

Seeds she’d sown on sand to satisfy greed and lust, 
washed away by the storms of life and lack of trust. 
Fruit she tried to grow sterile, with no flavor, with nothing left to savor, sand slipping through her fingers, “this can’t be it..”

Like a child who misses their father she ran in search of answers, saying, “look! look what i’ve done?!?” …Gripping so tightly to the illusion of joy, concealed among the remnants of grief. Searching for affirmation, a little appreciation, or some sort of relief. 

Face to face with Grief she met Joy, 
her heart of stone the Holy Spirit had to destroy. 

Alone in that space where the Holy Spirit dwells, her face wet with tears, “I’m not the same.” The beautiful things that she’d come to know now stuck, posted in a picture frame.

Seeking to find nothing but voids, 
in a world that worships and is led by decoys. 

The deceit she found in vain conceit, toying with her mind like a puppet submitting to their puppet master... 
this isn’t the Joy she was after.

JOY

How can I explain… 
Like the warmth of a hug from someone you haven’t seen in a while. 
The silence of the sun illuminating the corner of your room, breathing life into your space under golden hues... 
Like, like dancing through a cloud of bubbles, feeling each one gently touch your skin, you know... the smell of morning dews and coffee brews… the simple things.

What would it cost? 
What would it cost to gain the world and lose her soul? 
Her mind, will, and emotions
floating...under who's control?

Safe, saved, under the wings of her Heavenly Father, 
she needed nothing more than the prayer of a Daughter. 
Releasing control in full surrender, 
giving up all the world had taught her. 
The truth revealed and became quite clear, 
Joy is not earned – it's always near. 

“...Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me, your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies…” Psalm 23: 4-5

It’s the illusion of never having that makes us want it all, not knowing that we’ve had it all along. It’s in those moments that we thought would feed our soul, attached to the outcome, forgetting who’s in control.

P.S.

Real fruit cannot be found separate from God.

The seedless variety, looks like fruit but is tasteless and unable to multiply. It will eventually wither away even in the best environments.

When we think of being saved, do we also think of safety?

Anything man made has a beginning and an end. What God creates is infinite.

Grief has an interesting way of pervading through every aspect of life, consuming and distorting our gaze.

This poem is now a part of the series, Free Spirit, where I share my faith journey…in full..with the world.

Here’s part one:

Always love,

Chérie Jade ♡

If you’re an artist, no matter where you are in your journey or creative outlet, you remember what it’s like to burst through the fear of criticism, being seen, approval from family and friends, vulnerability, and judgment. There’s probably more..

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