
North Carolina slowed all the way down this weekend. A predicted historical Snowstorm. Snow day. Ice storm. Our first snow day together.
The world outside went quiet, the quiet that presses you inward. He promised breakfast in bed—said it easily, like warmth was a given. And in that moment, it was. Safety felt less like a concept. It was more like a posture: bodies tucked in, heat humming, nowhere we needed to be but here. I honor the quiet this time brings.
What I learned this weekend came in small, honest ways.
He has a tendency to fuss about things that bring me comfort. My favorite t-shirt—well worn, soft from years of loving, holes that tell the truth of time. An uneven drawstring on the sweatsuit he bought me, something I barely noticed until he did.
I don’t take it as criticism. I’m learning it’s his way of caring out loud—wanting things right, wanting things better, wanting me wrapped in what he believes I deserve. Still, I smile. Comfort doesn’t always need correcting.
Then there’s the contrast that makes me chuckle.
This man loves action movies—the louder, the better. Yet Sylvie’s Love has him standing up, cheering, eyes teary, emotions spilling over without apology. I watch him from the corner of the sofa and think, There you are. The tenderness we don’t always name finds its way out anyway.
Later, he sleeps. I study the rise and fall of his chest like it’s a prayer. Each time my phone rings, he wakes—every single time.
“Everyone okay?”
That question stays with me. The instinct to protect. To check. To stay alert even in rest.
And me?
I’m learning something quieter, maybe harder. I’m learning to rest in my uncertainty of us. Not rush clarity. Not demand guarantees. Not brace for what hasn’t happened.
That is my good in loving better—allowing presence without possession, warmth without certainty, love without over-managing the outcome.
Snow melts. Ice thaws.
And still, there is comfort.
Not named.
Not explained.
Just felt.
It moves through the quiet of the house. It moves through shared warmth. It provides the permission to be where I am without reaching for what’s next. God’s presence this weekend didn’t arrive with answers.
It came as refuge—steady, unhurried, close. Meeting me in the pause. Holding me while nothing is resolved.
I’m learning that loving better sometimes looks like staying. Letting uncertainty sit beside me. Trusting that grace doesn’t rush what is still becoming.
“The Lord is good to those who wait for Him,
to the soul who seeks Him.”
— Lamentations 3:25
A gentle question:
Where might God be sitting with you right now, simply asking you to stay? Please share your thoughts.
Be braver,
Michelle🌿
Sylvie’s Love with Tessa Thompson
The Grey with Liam Neeson
Buck and The Preacher with Sidney Poitier
300 with Gerard Butler
©️Intimately Worded, Michelle.




December 31…the last date of every year. I believe it to be more. It has become the date in which we tend to count our blessings, regret our mistakes, total up the losses. A date in which we ruminate over in regret…decide to regret or make executed decisions to do better while hoping for a grander life than previous. #2017


![The Unhappy Wife by [Garland, KE]](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/41vtdNDjb5L.jpg)
It is never easy being vulnerable nor is it ever so easy being the strongest. What I am learning is that life gets better when we share. When we open up, expose our hearts, share our pitfalls, and express our hopes and dreams, our lives become bigger. No longer are we alone, separate, on our own.
Where to begin? I believe in love. I believe in the type of love that covers, protects. The love that heals, forgives. The love that encourages, advises. The love that is silent yet quietly completes. I do not anticipate the fairy-tale, the dreamy –sexy-Knight-in-shining-armor type. I do not expect the saintly, mega millionaire to make all my dreams come true. Love is hard work. The type of work that is not for the faint of heart. My heart has been bruised enough. I am not dictating that it will not happen again, hurt has every opportunity as with everything in life. Yet, I will not force pain to remain.
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