“Yet I hold this against you: you have forsaken the love you had at first.”
— words that ache because they are true.
I remember my first love of faith. It was simpler then, less managed. I did not know how to evaluate it, defend it, or improve it. I only knew how to live inside it.
Remembering it now carries sweetness, and a quiet sadness. Not because it was perfect, but because I did not know to treasure it while it was still unfolding. I lived it without realizing how rare that unselfconscious devotion was.
I cannot return to it. Time does not work that way. But I sense that fragments remain—glimmers of trust, moments of openness, a readiness to believe without needing everything explained.
Today I did not chase nostalgia. I let memory do its gentle work. Not to accuse me of loss, but to remind me of what is still possible.
Perhaps first love is not something to be recovered whole, but something to be honored. And perhaps honoring it allows traces of that early tenderness to find their way back.
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