He knows the thoughts
I dare not speak,
the wounds beneath my words,
the places in me
where faith trembles.

He knows my sin
and my longing for holiness,
my failures
and the small, stubborn desire
to belong completely to Him.

Nothing is hidden.
And still,
He loves me.

He flung stars into the darkness
and breathed life into dust.
Yet He does not crush me
with His greatness.

He makes Himself small.
So small
that I can receive Him.

Bread.
Wine.
Flesh.
Blood.

The Infinite
hidden within the ordinary.

The Creator
giving Himself
to His creation.

Here is the mystery
that undoes me,
That the God who knows everything about me
still gives Himself to me.

That the God who needs nothing
allows Himself to be received
by one who has so little to give.

And kneeling before Him,
I begin to understand
that omnipotence is not merely
the power to command the universe.

It is the power
to become vulnerable for love.

To enter our flesh.
To remain.
To be broken
and poured out.
To wait silently
in the tabernacle
for a heart like mine.

And I have no great offering.

Only this—
my wandering heart,
my imperfect love,
my wounded yes.

I bring Him everything
I am afraid is not enough.
And He does not ask
for more.

He simply gives Himself again.

The God who knows me.
The God who can save me.
The God who loves me.

And somehow,
in the silence before the Eucharist,
I hear the answer
to every question I have ever carried:

You are known.
You are loved.
Come closer.