Thy Will Be Done You texted back and something in me that had gone quiet started singing again. I know better than to build a house on a single message. I know hope can run ahead of truth like a dog off its leash. But I am a hopeful person, it’s not something I do, it’s something I am. I want you. Not the idea of you, not the ache shaped like you, you. The life we said out loud we both still missed. My person. So I bring that want to the altar and I don’t shrink it to make it holy. I lay it down whole, still beating, and I say the hard sentence anyway: Thy will be done. Not because I’ve let go of wanting I haven’t, and I won’t pretend to. But because I can’t see the end of this story from where I’m standing, and gripping the pen tighter has never once written it faster. Let me keep talking to you without performing calm I don’t have. Let me keep hoping without mistaking hope for a guarantee. Let me hold my own life steady with these same two hands that are reaching for yours. If it’s a door, let me walk through it slow, and honest and let me still be someone who knows how to love without needing it back. Either way, thy will be done. I’ll keep my hands open. That’s the only part that was ever mine to do.