What it means to fly.

I have wings.
They wrap around me. Around my tired soul. Around all the dreams that haven't yet come to pass and the promises of things still so far away that they are nothing more than whispers.
I have wings.
They unfurl in the evenings. When I am alone. When I pray. When on my knees I bring this ache deep inside and pour it out in tears to a God I know hears, but I cannot see. And sometimes, I want so desperately to see.
I have wings.
There is a promise tucked away behind my very rib cage with that skittery heart of mine that these wings do in fact fly.
I have wings.
Sometimes I hold them, to remind myself they are real. That I can do this. That I've got this. That I am enough.
I have wings.
And I am growing into them. Growing into myself. Growing into the ability to believe in the unseen, the impossible.
I have wings.
They were given to me so I might believe that I will not always walk upon this earth. But one day, when I'm ready, when I have struggled and fallen, when I have tried and failed and tried again, when His timing is perfect. On that day. Sweet day ahead. I will see the things I am hoping for come to pass. I will see myself in that sky. And I will know.
I have wings.
And I will fly.

(photo credit- Helena Murray)