Maybe love does not always need to show up immediately. Maybe there is a better time to show up. Maybe it needs to anchor itself first in purpose, so that when it is finally released, it tells a truer, fuller, and more redemptive story.

Love held me at my worst. Held me even when my own grasp failed. Love held me in broken places, gathering the pieces and putting them back together—more beautifully than I ever could. It held me in the dark, reminding me that I am not alone. It held my doubts and questions with patience, unoffended and unrepulsed. It held my fears until they no longer ruled me.

What if love covers not just the sin we commit but even the ones we could have committed but did not because of love? What if love covers sin not only after it happens, but before it even begins?

And when I held that child, I realized: the smell wasn’t offensive, it is the kind of smell Jesus would draw close to, not avoid. It was the scent of someone who is loved. Someone whose worth isn’t diminished by their circumstances. Someone whom Jesus, if He were here physically, would embrace without a moment of hesitation.

Karangalan speaks of achievements. Dangal speaks of identity, of who you are. And it hit me: The honor God gives me is not karangalan. There’s nothing I’ve done that could earn that. It is dangal. A declaration of identity and worth rooted in His love.

Maybe this is why God allows us to walk through seasons of difficulty—not to test if our love for Him is real, but to reveal it to us. To take our faith from mere words to something tangible. To show us that what we thought was weak is actually stronger than we knew. Because love and faith aren’t just something we say. It’s something we live by.