Somehow, He spoke to me. Not in words or voice. Not in signs or touch. But, to the drum and bleat of my own pounding heart. "Write, child " "Write " He seemed to say, over and over again. One sleepless night after another. "But, Father. What am I to write? There are words. So many words pounding on my heart " "Just write," He seemed to say. "I am your story and your song. The author of your life. It is I, the Great I Am, who writes the script of your life." And, with that, the words poured out. The story unfolded. My heart freed. The tight bud... bloomed. A whisper. An invitation. "Bloom, Child. Bloom as one with the beauty of my love." And, you know? I believe I did.My story, friends. How He bloomed this stubborn bud of a soul, one tightly bound petal at a time. How He can be found and experienced in the every, sometimes mundane, days of motherhood.