The Morning Glory


I hear humming. 

It’s fine because it’s been there for hours, but with every second, the volume increases a notch.

Some days it’s unbearable, like someone following me through the streets of a big city—never losing sight of me. And other days it’s quiet and barely there, but it’s never really gone.

Suddenly, every hole is insignificant, and it’s only purpose is to hold the beauty of the Morning Glory.

It can take different forms: the whispers of others, the fan spinning in circles on my ceiling, or the noise of people throwing rocks at my armor.

My armor—my confidence. It has many indents and marks from the rocks: the hurtful words people have thrown at me. 

Underhand, easy and sly. Almost missing me and only leaving a small dent. 

Overhand, whizzing at my chest and knocking me off my feet on impact.

Most of the time the rocks say “weird” or “strange” or even “not enough.” These ones usually leave large dents in my armor.

“Veronica, you’re being stupid.”

“Veronica, what you’re saying isn’t important.”

“Veronica, you’re weird and everyone knows it.”

Holes left in the metal are constantly reminding me of these words thrown at me—I feel like hiding in my bedroom and not letting anyone else in because one more hit could break my armor in two. I close my eyes and fall asleep.

When I wake up, I’m in a field of flowers and alone. I look down at my armor and it’s rusted still, but in the holes are fully grown, fresh, blue Morning Glory.

Suddenly, every hole is insignificant, and it’s only purpose is to hold the beauty of the Morning Glory.

Every single word, every sentence, every hurtful comment has left my mind; all I am is mesmerized. Mesmerized by the symbolic grace of the flowers. 

All that is left is His air around me, whispering kind, encouraging words. 

“Veronica you are enough.” 

“Veronica you are strong.”

“Veronica you are mine.”

Each petal of all the flowers in the holes of my armor soaks up these words reminding me of His love for me and His grace in my life.

Although these words are living within me every day, I still feel scared. Scared that people will tell me to stop trusting in Him or to stop speaking publicly about Him. 

I’m hesitant to speak the words that come into my mind because the people around me judge me and still throw rocks at my armor. 

But with every hole, a new flower is planted, a new peace is found, a new me is created.