The bouquet of lavender had withered on her windowsill, and in some small way, Abigail felt like the flowers mirrored her own heart. She sat at her kitchen table, a cold cup of coffee untouched in front of her, staring blankly at the muted blue sky beyond the glass. Somewhere along the years, she had lost the vibrant parts of herself—the ones that laughed freely, dreamed boldly, loved without fear.
Turning thirty without a husband, without a career that dazzled, without any of the shining markers the world said she needed, had left her quietly hollow. She would smile for friends and family, nod politely when others shared their milestones, and return home with a deep ache settling inside her chest.
One rainy afternoon when the loneliness seemed too huge to bear, Abigail absentmindedly pulled her Bible from the shelf—an old, leather-bound one her grandmother had given her years ago. She hadn't cracked it open in months. Maybe longer. Its pages were worn, certain verses underlined in shaky cursive, soft with love.
She flipped it open to the Psalms, the book her grandmother had always said was "God’s comfort for aching hearts." Her tired eyes fell upon these words:
"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well."
The verse tumbled into the hollow spaces of her spirit like warm light finding the cracks of a ruined house. Fearfully and wonderfully made? Her?
She said the words aloud, hesitantly at first, as if testing their weight in the room.
The rain outside slowed to a whisper.
For reasons she couldn't explain, Abigail walked to her mirror. She studied the woman reflected back at her—the one with laugh lines earned from loving fiercely, hands calloused from serving others, eyes bright enough to notice beauty in little things. She thought of the countless times she had sat with friends at midnight, praying over broken hearts. The meals prepared for hungry neighbors. The notes written in secret to encourage someone else.
Somewhere, quietly, God whispered: You are not a mistake. You are mine.
Tears blurred her vision as she pressed a hand against the mirror, a laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep and tender. Not for what the world said she was lacking, but for being seen. Known. Loved.
A knock at her door startled her. She wiped at her tears, composing herself as best she could, and answered it.
Her neighbor, an elderly widower she sometimes ran errands for, stood shivering under an umbrella. “Abby, my television's on the fritz. Think you could help me figure it out?”
Her heart swelled. Not out of obligation or loneliness, but something different—a quiet joy humming under her skin. A purpose not tied to accomplishments, but to love.
“Of course,” she said, smiling.
As she followed him across the yard, Abigail realized that her life—the quiet, unseen, faithful life—was precious in God's sight. Every gentle act of kindness stretched like ripples into eternity, even if no platform, no spotlight, ever glamorized it.
Somewhere between a broken TV and a shared pot of tea, she found it: a belonging so deep, a worth so solid, not founded in doing, but in simply being His.
The lavender on the windowsill would bloom again. And so would she.
—
Bible References:
The bouquet of lavender had withered on her windowsill, and in some small way, Abigail felt like the flowers mirrored her own heart. She sat at her kitchen table, a cold cup of coffee untouched in front of her, staring blankly at the muted blue sky beyond the glass. Somewhere along the years, she had lost the vibrant parts of herself—the ones that laughed freely, dreamed boldly, loved without fear.
Turning thirty without a husband, without a career that dazzled, without any of the shining markers the world said she needed, had left her quietly hollow. She would smile for friends and family, nod politely when others shared their milestones, and return home with a deep ache settling inside her chest.
One rainy afternoon when the loneliness seemed too huge to bear, Abigail absentmindedly pulled her Bible from the shelf—an old, leather-bound one her grandmother had given her years ago. She hadn't cracked it open in months. Maybe longer. Its pages were worn, certain verses underlined in shaky cursive, soft with love.
She flipped it open to the Psalms, the book her grandmother had always said was "God’s comfort for aching hearts." Her tired eyes fell upon these words:
"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well."
The verse tumbled into the hollow spaces of her spirit like warm light finding the cracks of a ruined house. Fearfully and wonderfully made? Her?
She said the words aloud, hesitantly at first, as if testing their weight in the room.
The rain outside slowed to a whisper.
For reasons she couldn't explain, Abigail walked to her mirror. She studied the woman reflected back at her—the one with laugh lines earned from loving fiercely, hands calloused from serving others, eyes bright enough to notice beauty in little things. She thought of the countless times she had sat with friends at midnight, praying over broken hearts. The meals prepared for hungry neighbors. The notes written in secret to encourage someone else.
Somewhere, quietly, God whispered: You are not a mistake. You are mine.
Tears blurred her vision as she pressed a hand against the mirror, a laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep and tender. Not for what the world said she was lacking, but for being seen. Known. Loved.
A knock at her door startled her. She wiped at her tears, composing herself as best she could, and answered it.
Her neighbor, an elderly widower she sometimes ran errands for, stood shivering under an umbrella. “Abby, my television's on the fritz. Think you could help me figure it out?”
Her heart swelled. Not out of obligation or loneliness, but something different—a quiet joy humming under her skin. A purpose not tied to accomplishments, but to love.
“Of course,” she said, smiling.
As she followed him across the yard, Abigail realized that her life—the quiet, unseen, faithful life—was precious in God's sight. Every gentle act of kindness stretched like ripples into eternity, even if no platform, no spotlight, ever glamorized it.
Somewhere between a broken TV and a shared pot of tea, she found it: a belonging so deep, a worth so solid, not founded in doing, but in simply being His.
The lavender on the windowsill would bloom again. And so would she.
—
Bible References:
