No Umbrella But I Still Walked In The Storm

They whispered she’d break—

too bruised, too bold,

too burned by truths

that others buried.

They watched her walk through storms

with no umbrella but resolve,

no guide but her conscience,

no shelter but Jehovah’s arms.

They thought silence would crush her,

that shame would stain her steps,

but she did not beg for acceptance—

she carried grace in her bones instead.

She stood at the edge of the place

where others lost their footing,

and she did not tremble.

She remembered.

She remembered every door slammed,

every sideways glance,

every “you should’ve stayed gone”—

and walked in anyway.

Not to prove anything.

Not to be seen.

But because truth still calls her name.

And she answers—

not with noise,

but with presence.

She is not what they expected.

She is not what they can erase.

She is not here to plead.

She is here

because mercy met her

in the dark

and handed her light.

And she kept it.

Carried it.

Kindled it.

She is not a story of survival.

She is a psalm of return.