There is a sacred kind of beauty in being cared for—extravagantly. It’s not loud or flashy. It doesn’t demand attention. But it arrives like dew on thirsty ground, like balm to a weathered soul. It’s the kind of love that surprises me in the quiet places—reminding me that I am seen, held, and cherished by both God and the people He sends.

Every morning, God shows up with manna—just enough for the day. Not a feast, not a flood, but enough. Enough strength to stand. Enough peace to breathe. Enough grace to keep going. It comes in unexpected ways: a phone call when the silence is too loud, a message that speaks to the exact ache I didn’t voice, a card that carries more than words—it carries presence. Sometimes, it’s someone showing up at my door, no grand gesture, just showing up. And somehow, that’s everything.

These moments are fuel for my heart. They don’t erase the ache, but they cover it with joy. Deep, honest joy. Not the kind that denies pain, but the kind that declares beauty can still bloom here.

I call them Godprints—those daily marks of His nearness. A song that plays at the right time. A sunrise that feels like a whisper. A conversation that leaves me lighter. A shared tear. A knowing look. A small gift. A fresh breeze through an open window. They are reminders that God is here, weaving glory into my ordinary.

Even in this dry, parched valley, I see tender, hearty shoots pushing through the cracks. Growth where I didn’t expect it. Hope where I feared it had died. Healing that happens slowly, but surely. And somehow, I know—I’m not just surviving. I’m being transformed.

This is the beauty of being loved on with extravagance: it doesn’t demand that I be whole, but it dares to believe that I will be. It meets me in the valley, and stays there—until new life rises from the dust.