Song of Songs 6:9

“My dove, my perfect one, is unique…
the young women saw her and called her blessed;
the queens and concubines praised her.”

I grew up in a family that knew what it was to be uprooted. Things changed quickly. Ground shifted beneath our feet more than once. And somewhere in all that sudden movement, I learned something tender and lasting — that beauty is not found, it is cultivated.

When the outside world feels uncertain, you learn to tend the inside one.

As a little girl, I held tightly to imagination. I kept my childlike wonder polished and close to my heart. I believed in miracles the way country children believe in summer rain — naturally, expectantly. Some shy away from the word magic, especially in Christian circles, because it feels shadowed. But to me, magic has always meant something wonderful arriving from the unseen. And if anything is wonderful and unseen and full of awe, it is God. He is gentler and grander than any word we could ever use.

Over the past seven years, I have walked through hills and valleys, across ravines of emotion, through fog and into clearings. What began as innocent trust — trust in God and in people — slowly matured. I once believed that if something was unjust, surely it would be swiftly corrected. I believed truth spoke loudly enough on its own. But life taught me something quieter.

Human nature is neither wholly good nor wholly evil. Each of us carries both seeds. With God, we are capable of breathtaking goodness. Without Him, we are capable of harm we never imagined. And most of us move somewhere in between, influenced by fear, by pride, by longing, by misunderstanding.

I have learned to be slower in judgment.

There are many who may not speak of God openly, who may even wrestle with belief — yet they live with deep kindness, sincerity, and a sense of justice that feels sacred. And there are others who speak God’s name often, yet move without humility, assuming they understand His ways in another person’s life.

But how could we ever?

We barely understand what He is shaping in our own hearts. How then could we claim knowledge of the intricate, infinite work He is weaving in someone else’s story?

True humility says, I don’t fully know.
True faith says, I trust anyway.

In recent years, I have watched fame rise quickly in strange places. Influence without depth. Applause without artistry. It can begin to look like power — almost godlike in its reach. And for some, that illusion replaces dependence on God. It becomes easy to offer Him lip service while living as though success was self-made.

But real faith is quieter.

Real faith gives God credit even when we do not understand what He is allowing. Real faith resists becoming judge and jury over someone else’s private journey — especially when we cannot see the full picture.

There were seasons I felt alone in this way of thinking. Alone in refusing to accuse. Alone in not wanting attention for attention’s sake. Alone in holding fast to simple biblical principles: do not lie, do not slander, do not seek recognition above righteousness.

And yet, I was not alone.

I remembered the man I love — how often he spoke of the ache of fame. How he longed for ordinary joys. How public applause can feel strangely isolating. I had once feared fame myself, believing it stripped people of their softness, their ability to live simply and love deeply. I feared losing myself more than I feared obscurity.

And then I met him.

Bold in public, yes. But in private — tender, thoughtful, quietly carrying loneliness of his own. Surrounded by admiration, yet longing for something real.

What drew us together felt like Tennessee fireflies at dusk — small lights flickering in the dark, unmistakably alive. Gentle. Mystical. God-breathed. The kind of moment that feels less manufactured and more ordained.

When I felt the sudden absence of him, it was like winter came overnight. I grieved deeply. But slowly, in the hush of early mornings and the stillness of prayer, I began to hear God again — not in thunder, but in whispers. I began to trust His love for me again. I began to believe that timing is not accidental in His hands.

And so my faith deepened.

Not the naïve faith of youth — but the steady faith of a woman who has wrestled and remained.

I have come to believe that becoming a devoted wife does not begin at wedding vows. It begins long before — in the molding of the heart. In choosing loyalty before it is required. In choosing integrity when no one is watching. In preparing your spirit for a love that may not look like anyone else’s story.

The Bible is full of different love stories for a reason. No two are the same. I have often thought of Sarah in the Book of Tobit — mocked, grieving, nearly losing hope before God intervened. Her story reminds me that delayed joy is not denied joy. That we are never forgotten.

It matters who you build with. It matters who fathers your children. God does not force our choices — but He faithfully walks with us through them.

So when I speak of weaving beauty, devotion, and prosperity through untamed seasons, I speak of tending to what is eternal when everything else feels uncertain.

Beauty, to me, is not glitter or display. It is softness. It is heritage. It is a legacy. It is choosing natural fabrics against your skin that reminds you of the earth God formed. It is curating what you allow your eyes to rest upon. It is warmth in a home. It is words spoken gently. It is private thoughts aligned with goodness.

Real beauty does not boast. It does not beg to be seen. It simply is.

Prosperity, too, begins within. It cannot be stolen or fabricated for long. The kind that flows from God does not manipulate or deceive. It does not slander to climb. It does not scramble to prove itself. It moves like a quiet river — steady even when the seasons shift.

There are days when more seems to go out than come in. But God does not change with the weather of our finances or the opinion of the crowd. True prosperity is alignment with Him. It is peace. It is provision. It is trust that what is meant for you will not miss you.

And so I continue — slowly, intentionally — weaving.

Through displacement.
Through misunderstanding.
Through love.
Through longing.
Through wilderness and firefly light.

Cultivating a life that feels like a warm farmhouse lamp glowing at dusk — steady, welcoming, rooted in faith.

Untamed seasons may come and go.

But what is planted deeply, with God at its center, will always bloom again.