(for the one who remembered)
She comes barefoot—
no veil, no deflection,
no incantations from the high places
to conjure what love has already given.
She comes with smoke in her hair
and ash on her cheek—
but it is not the ash of shame.
It is the ash of sacrifice.
The Asherah poles still burn behind her,
splintering one by one
as she walks away
from the counterfeit embrace
that always left her colder.
She does not flinch at the sight of the altar.
She runs.
And with both hands—
those beautiful, once-bound hands—
she grabs the horns.
She grabs them.
Shakes them;
not to demand,
but to worship—
not to protest,
but to pour out
what only now she knows she carried.
Because now she knows
she is Loved.
Not as a symbol.
Not as an echo.
Not as someone to fix
or someone to use.
But as herself.
The scent of her offering rises—
not of perfection,
but of devotion.
Not the blood of goats,
but the tears of a woman
who thought she had been lost too long
to be welcomed home.
The Lord does not turn His face away.
He draws near.
Because this—
THIS
is the aroma that pleases Him most:
Not the pageantry of idols,
but the girl
who brings her whole ache
and says,
"Thank you for loving who I am—
and for showing me that who I am
is someone to be loved."
The horns tremble
under the weight of such truth.
And heaven,
silent for so long,
weeps with her—
not because she was far gone,
but because she finally came close.
And dared to believe.
