DivineLinesByJasming
I’m Jasming — a mother, a wife, a soul who writes through the chaos. / My words carry heartbreak, healing, and the weight of love. / Rooted in resilience, I write for those who break quietly and rise anyway. / / © 2025 Jasming Ordonez. All rights reserved.
I know some days feel heavy —
like no one sees the way you love,
or understands the weight you carry
in that heart made of gold and prayer.
This poem is for you,
to remind you of what’s true —
that only God made you
exactly the way this world needed:
imperfectly beautiful.
When death knocks again,
and another loved one leaves too soon,
remember —
God’s plan is not to break you,
but to build you through the storm.
When sons and daughters call your name
and you feel too tired to answer,
remember what you’ve told me —
that God never gives us more
than our hearts can bear.
I pray the Lord keeps filling you
with strength when you run low,
with patience when pain returns,
and with love —
a love that reminds you you’re never alone.
Because the same faith you’ve spoken over me
is now the prayer I speak for you:
May His light stay near your heart,
and may you always know —
you are exactly who He designed you to be. 💛
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 1:49 PM UTC
To my mother,
and to the woman
I once hoped would become another—
I loved you both
with open hands,
even when life taught me
that open hands
sometimes come back empty.
I tried to build bridges
with words,
with patience,
with forgiveness that sat heavy
inside my chest.
I tried to become family
through loyalty,
through effort,
through simply showing up.
But some endings
do not arrive quietly.
Some shatter.
Some leave the heart standing
in rooms that no longer feel welcoming.
And ours ended drastically—
with distance, silence,
and truths too painful
to dress beautifully.
Still, I do not hate you.
Because God gave me a heart
that continues to love
even after disappointment.
A heart that remembers
Exodus 20:12—
to honor thy father and thy mother—
even when the relationship trembles
like weak branches in a storm.
And maybe that is my blessing
and my burden.
To keep loving.
To keep praying.
To keep honoring
what once hurt me.
Now I look at my sons
and I pray differently.
I pray they grow knowing
that love should feel safe,
that mothers deserve gentleness,
that fathers should lead with wisdom,
and that family should never become
a battlefield of pride.
I may not have received
every version of love
I once reached for,
but God still trusted me enough
to become a mother myself.
And that alone
reminds me
that broken relationships
cannot break
the purpose God placed inside me.
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 1:45 PM UTC
God is great when I wake up mad,
When my chest feels heavy, my thoughts feel loud.
When patience is thin and peace feels far,
He meets me exactly as I are.
God is great when I wake up sad,
When tears sit quiet behind my eyes.
When hope feels tired of trying again,
He holds my heart and calls me friend.
God is great when I wake up tired,
When my soul aches more than my bones.
When I’ve given all I had to give,
He breathes new strength so I can live.
Not just when I smile,
Not just when I’m strong,
But in every feeling
That says something’s wrong.
God is great in my mess,
In my doubt, in my pain,
In the moments I whisper,
“Please help me today.”
So I rise as I am—
Not perfect, not brave—
Trusting the God
Who still saves my day.
Jan 12
Jan 12, 2026 at 12:30 PM UTC
All I ever wanted
was a family I could hold—
steady hands, soft love,
a place where my heart felt safe
and my soul didn’t have to fight to be understood.
I dreamed of loyalty without conditions,
of people who stayed
not only when life was easy,
but when the storms hit hard
and the nights felt long.
I wanted love that didn’t disappear,
voices that didn’t break me,
a home built on truth, effort,
and the kind of peace you don’t have to beg for.
But life…
life taught me its own lessons.
It showed me that some people
can only love you halfway,
that sometimes the family you imagined
is not the family you’re given,
and sometimes letting go
is the only way to grow.
It wasn’t failure—
it was protection.
It was God stepping in when I didn’t know how to.
It was the universe clearing space
for everything meant to stay.
And then came my boys.
King—my first heartbeat of purpose,
my reminder that love can be gentle
even after the world has been rough.
Elijah—my miracle,
my proof that God rebuilds families
through blessings wrapped in tiny hands
and eyes full of light.
Through them,
I learned unconditional love.
Through them,
I realized I was never asking for too much—
I was asking the wrong people.
Every tear, every lesson, every ending
was leading me to this beginning.
So now I rise for my boys,
I breathe for my boys,
I build the home I once prayed for
with my own hands,
my own strength,
my own healed heart.
Because the family I wanted
was never lost—
it was waiting for me
to become the woman
who could finally hold it.
Dec 11, 2025
Dec 11, 2025 at 9:47 AM UTC
The universe speaks softly,
not always in words—
sometimes in endings,
in silence,
in things that no longer fit
the way they once did.
It teaches us by shifting,
by nudging our souls awake,
by closing the doors
we were too afraid
to walk away from.
Sometimes the lesson is simple:
Let go.
Not as a punishment,
but as a permission—
a freeing of the hands
so they can finally hold
something better.
The universe doesn’t shrink;
it expands.
And it wants us to do the same—
to grow past fear,
to rise beyond hurt,
to step into a world
where every good thing
has room to reach us.
Letting go isn’t losing.
It’s releasing the weight
that kept your wings
from remembering
they were made to fly.
And when you surrender
what was never meant to stay,
you open space
for miracles to land gently
on the path ahead.
The universe is teaching us
to trust the unfolding—
to understand that love, peace, joy
move freely toward those
who stop gripping the pain
that was only meant
to push them forward.
So breathe. Release.
Make room for the blessing.
Because sometimes letting go
is the only way
to live in a world
that expands with
every good thing
you were always destined
to receive.
Dec 10, 2025
Dec 10, 2025 at 1:23 PM UTC
No one protected me when the world got loud,
When my voice felt small, when my head hung down.
I learned the hard way, through heartbreak and noise,
That I must stand strong for myself and my boys.
Boundaries weren’t taught—they were carved from pain,
From nights full of tears and days soaked in rain.
People took pieces I never meant to give,
And I kept surviving instead of learning to live.
But God whispered softly, Daughter, rise.
Put Me in front of the fear in your eyes.
So I’m lifting my head, drawing new lines,
Guarding my spirit, reclaiming what’s mine.
Now I say “no” without trembling inside,
I shut doors gently that once stood wide.
I choose peace over chaos, truth over lies—
My strength blooms louder as old weakness dies.
I’m the shield now, the fortress, the flame,
Covering my children in love’s holy name.
No longer waiting for someone to care—
I am the answer to my own silent prayer.
For my boys, I rise; for myself, I fight,
With God as my armor, my guide, my light.
He stands at the forefront of all my worries,
Turning my battles into victory stories.
So let the world come; I won’t break like before.
These boundaries are blessings, not burdens anymore.
Because when no one protected the woman I’ve been—
God taught me to protect the woman I’m becoming.
Dec 10, 2025
Dec 10, 2025 at 1:15 PM UTC
You said the wrong thing at the worst time,
And I threw back words that weren’t even mine.
Two broken truths in a single breath,
Turning small misunderstandings into something that felt like death.
We both wanted more than we knew how to show,
Both scared of the depth we were starting to know.
Your silence cut deep, my feelings ran loud,
Two fragile hearts lost in the same storm cloud.
I can’t force your love to fit my need,
And you can’t tame the places where I bleed.
We’re learning each other with every mistake—
This week was a lesson we didn’t mean to make.
Your timing was sharp, but so was mine,
Two clashing rhythms never landing in line.
A spark from you, a rush from me—
Suddenly fire where we meant to be free.
I’ll own my part—my fear, my flame,
The way I rise too fast when I feel ashamed.
You’ll own yours—your distance, your doubt,
The words you toss in and the feelings left out.
But still we stand here, wanting more,
Wounded but wiser than we were before.
Maybe love’s not perfect, but it could be true—
If I learn me, and you learn you.
Because even when wrong words set the night ablaze,
There’s something in us that still wants to stay.
And maybe that’s the sign in the smoke and the ache:
Some hearts break a little before they learn what love takes.
Dec 10, 2025
Dec 10, 2025 at 1:13 PM UTC
I reached out with kindness, hoping we’d grow,
A sister bond, a warm steady glow.
I pictured support, like mothers and daughters,
Lifting each other through life’s heavy waters.
I gave from my heart with no strings to pull,
I poured in my love till my own cup felt full.
But instead I met energy shaky and small,
Petty vibrations that answered my call.
I tried to show love, I tried to be real,
Thought mother-to-mother we’d deeply appeal.
But some bonds don’t blossom, no matter the try—
Some people stay grounded while you learn to fly.
I hoped for a circle where our daughters could see
Two grown women choosing peace, choosing unity.
But actions spoke louder than any excuse,
And the “weirdness” revealed a truth I can’t unuse.
So here’s what I’ve learned as I step back with grace:
Not everyone’s meant to stay close in your space.
Some ties fall apart so your spirit can grow,
And love for yourself is the first love to show.
I tried out of goodness, I tried to be kind—
But peace is the treasure I choose to align.
A mother, a woman, evolving each day—
And sometimes the lesson is simply: walk away.
Dec 2, 2025
Dec 2, 2025 at 12:30 PM UTC
And now you have a daughter —
a little girl with eyes wide open,
a spirit sent by God to watch your path,
a soul that will echo your footsteps,
learning love from what you choose
and survival from what you endure.
May she never love a man
cut from her father’s cloth —
may her heart reject that pattern
before it ever becomes a wound.
May she break the chains
you once called comfort,
and rise brighter
than every shadow
you allowed to shape your life.
So guide her, protect her, shield her from the storm;
teach her love is holy — never meant to be bruised or torn.
May she walk with discernment,
see danger before it speaks,
and choose her worth early
so no one can convince her otherwise.
May God surround her with wisdom,
with peace,
with clarity so sharp it becomes armor —
so she never mistakes chaos
for warmth,
nor a storm
for a home.
And for his boys…
may they rise as true Kings-in-the-making —
men who choose truth
over the lies they were born around,
men who choose honor
where dishonor once lived,
men who choose softness
where violence once stood.
May they rewrite the legacy,
restore the name,
and break the patterns
that tried to claim them.
I already know mine is —
a King formed from truth,
protected by grace,
chosen by God,
shining untouched
by the kingdom
that fell.
Nov 26, 2025
Nov 26, 2025 at 10:32 AM UTC
From the moment the first brick touched the ground,
the earth shivered beneath it — it made no solid sound.
For no kingdom built on secrets, on shadows, on sin
can stand strong or steady when deceit lies within.
You called it love, you called it fate,
but every vow was just a mask you’d later recreate.
Walls made of excuses, windows fogged with fear,
a castle of illusions you refused to see clear.
A kingdom of lies from the very first day —
that’s the throne you chased, that’s the price you pay.
You wanted royalty so bad you ignored every sign,
thinking a borrowed crown could ever truly shine.
You stepped in blind, never checking the foundation,
believing every story, every false declaration.
You held his sins like scripture, wore his wounds like art,
built a home from broken pieces and called it a brand-new start.
But now the kingdom you worshipped with unshaken trust
is collapsing around you, turning gold into dust.
The crown you claimed is cracking, the throne beneath you shakes,
for nothing born of falsehood survives the truth when it wakes.
You can’t build a life on lies, nor rise from stolen ground —
you can’t stand tall in ruins expecting peace to be found.
What you inherited was chaos, a prophecy unraveling slow,
a fairytale rewritten into the harshest truth you’ll ever know.
And me? I walked away from wreckage, rose from every scar,
built a kingdom made of healing — no shadows, no war.
A throne forged in resilience, a crown washed clean,
a life aligned with God, with light, with things unseen.
Let the record speak clearly, let the truth remain:
you fought for a kingdom of lies — I rose from its pain.
What crushed you became my calling, what trapped you set me free;
I became the truth your castle would never let you be.
Nov 26, 2025
Nov 26, 2025 at 10:28 AM UTC