The yeses i left unspoken

How often have I hesitated, poised on the brink of "perhaps," before unknown paths that whispered my name. And there, where the threshold opened in fevered silence, I denied the wind its wing, consecrating the moment to the still womb of my refusal. The "yeses" I left unspoken are grains of light falling from Mary's womb, while time holds its breath in the eternal pause of the Annunciation. They are Peter’s trembling on the cusp of the rooster’s crow, a flickering flame gathered by forgiveness, reforged into stone. The "yeses" I left unspoken are unseen wounds in the body of the risen Christ, traces of nails never driven, silent as Veronica’s veiled face. They are Gethsemane’s agony stripped of words, the sweat that drips blood among the gnarled roots of the olive tree, forever awaiting a dove. Yet even those unspoken "yeses" rest in the heart of eternity, like seeds in the deep furrow of untouched earth, and already they stir, woven with grace, in the mystery of an hour yet to come. They are hands brushing the hem, the blind touch that heals, they are God’s patient waiting, brighter than any word unsaid.