7.10.25
I choose Death, Lord—
and find joy in the dying.
The breaking is gentle,
Your hands are kind.
Where I end,
grace begins—
a stillness, a splendor.
In losing myself,
I meet You fully,
and it is beautiful to be nothing,
but Yours.
-Lele
18.7.25
The alchemist
who flies on the wings of Grace,
She moves in the stillness between stars—
26 full moons as a vow on her wrist.
Her scent is surrender,
Her rhythm is temperance,
wrapped in Sun, silk, and strategy.
You need not understand.
You need only yield.
-Lele
The fall. A narrative as old as time, woven into the very fabric of creation.
Genesis 3 tells of a paradise shattered, of innocence lost, and of an intimacy with God interrupted by a single choice. “What is this you have done?” the Lord asks, His voice heavy with the weight of love betrayed. And in that moment, humanity’s relationship with God—and with one another—was forever changed.
I find myself reflecting on the fall, not in Eden, but in my own life. A public union of hearts and lives, shared and celebrated, has ended. The first partner I ever called home is now no longer mine. The mighty have fallen, the poets say. Though I am no king, my heart feels the weight of that phrase. How fragile the human spirit is, how vulnerable we are when we give ourselves to another, laying bare our hopes and fears, trusting they will be held with care.
In the aftermath, I have asked myself: Was it love that failed, or was it simply us? Is love eternal, as scripture teaches, or is it fractured by the very human vessels that attempt to carry it? Perhaps it is both. Perhaps love remains pure, even as we stumble under its weight.
“To love at all is to be vulnerable,” C.S. Lewis once wrote. “Love anything, and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken.” To love is to risk the fall, to step into the unknown with faith that the one you hold close will not let go. Yet, sometimes, they do. Or perhaps it is we who loosen our grip, weary from the journey, distracted by our own frailty.
The fall reminds me of surrender—not just to love, but to God, who is love itself. What does it mean to surrender when the heart is broken? It means to offer up the pieces, trusting that the hands that shaped the heavens can also reshape the human heart. It means to acknowledge that the fall is not the end of the story. Eden was lost, but grace abounds. The mighty fall, but the humble are lifted.
In this moment, I see the nature of man: fragile, flawed, often blind to the divine within one another. I see the nature of relationships: mirrors that reflect not only beauty but also brokenness. And I see the nature of love: a call to transcend the fall, to forgive as we are forgiven, to endure as God endures.
Perhaps this is the beginning of a new story—not one of perfect love but of perfecting love. For even in the fall, there is grace. And grace, I am learning, is where healing begins.
-Lele M
I am learning that comfort is an illusion. Particularly in the context of ‘comfort zones’.
I consider myself an introvert. I feel spent after an hour in social settings. I need to retreat into my shell for hours to recharge. I prefer time alone with my thoughts. I’m most comfortable in my own space and there are really only 2 or 3 people around whom I truly come alive.
But God is putting me to the test. In seeking his kingdom, I must seek fellowship with his people. In wanting more of Christ, I yearn for connection with believers, and fellowship in the Body. I yearn to venture beyond my comfort zone, and feel rather comfortable in that endeavour. I am having to learn to pursue connections in a way that has upturned my understanding of myself and my introversion.
Most people don’t believe me when I say I’m an introvert. Usually, I would try to convince them otherwise. I would hurry to tell them not to mistake confidence for extroversion, assure them I’ve had years of practice in public speaking, debating, performing arts, etc. Now I just smile a grateful, knowing smile. I’m coming to understand that something bigger is at play. Those aren’t the reasons I don’t pass as an introvert.
It could only be grace – a common comfort.
– Lele M
I find butterflies fascinating.
I’ve never heard the insights of a butterfly. But if I were so fortunate as to have a conversation with a butterfly. In a world where I could, of course, meet with a butterfly for a chat. I imagine it would arrive punctually. Casually settling onto my forefinger as if coming home after an extended voyage. Not so much flying or fluttering as floating.
I’d immediately set out to study the details of the small creature with curious eyes. Would it consider that impolite?
I’d wonder the same things I always do. Do butterflies know how beautiful they are?
They don’t get to see their wings or get to consider their aesthetic value, let alone to perceive them as beautiful. Is that what humility is about?
I’d ask about the cocoon. “What’s it like?” I’d furrow a pair of quizzical eyebrows as I ask.
“I read somewhere that butterflies split open and lose their exoskeleton when they pupate,” I’d venture. “Does that hurt?”
I’ve always wondered what that time in isolation as a pupa must be like. Extraordinary, I imagine. Divine, definitely.
“Did you emerge as a clean slate?” I’d enquire with childlike wonder.
“As in, are you conscious of your previous caterpillar experience? Do you get to keep those memories?”
Butterflies are phenomenal. They get to have four lives – their four distinct stages of metamorphosis.
I’d probably also ask if it has ever been ashamed of its cocoon, or its previous caterpillar form. Are its wings a reminder of a darker, colder time of its existence? A time of unrealized potential that it would rather forget.
I imagine it would briefly flutter its wings, almost reflexively as it pondered the question for a moment. The whole world would seem to hold its breath in anticipation.
“I am a butterfly,” it would supply finally, matter-of-factly.
“When I emerge from the chrysalis, a matured version of my previous larval form, with a set of wings and no flight experience, I am surprising no one.”
Its antennae would be motionless, in the butterfly equivalent of a deadpan expression.
“I haven’t done anything extraordinary. In fact, I haven’t done anything at all. Let alone that which warrants shame.”
“My metamorphosis is not my work. It is simply the way of things. It is desperately unremarkable by the standards of my species. It is the rule.”
“Not only that,” it would add thoughtfully.
“Shame makes no sense because this is necessary. My wings are a mechanism for my protection, designed to intimidate and deter predators with their patterns and bright colours. They’re also my means of mobility, I cannot be ashamed of them. They are what allows me to continue my existence.”
I’d listen attentively, almost greedily. Focusing on the vivid horizon ahead of us and hanging on every word meditatively.
“Kind of like grace,” I’d offer after a while, deeply pensive and saturated in the moment.
It wouldn’t be until I turn for another glance at the splendor of those delicate wings that I would realize my index finger was no longer occupied.
“Of course,” I’d say, with an affectionate smile. “It was a weightless creature, I didn’t feel it lift off my finger. How long has it been gone?” I’d begin to wonder.
Then the air would fall still around me, as if all of creation were calling me to attention.
“Wings” I’d hear. “Kind of like grace.”
– Lele M
Lele Muthali 