BB Grey–musings

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Saturday. Thirty degrees.
The cold makes staying in bed
a theological act.
Winter remembers itself here, briefly, in the mountains
like a ghost that forgot
to leave completely.

The heater hums a midnight hymn.
I lower the dial to fifty,
a small rebellion against the dark.
Still, I wake
to its murmur—faithful,
fighting a chill I cannot name.

They promise warmth next week.
Santa Anas will blow in,
dry and certain.
For now,
the cold is a kind of truth.

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I read the Bible in pieces:
Old Testament, New,
a psalm, a proverb.
Two pages a day.
A slow stitching
of a fractured world.
It feels like breathing.

Yesterday, I hung up the phone.
I used to stay,
sorting through the wreckage of your voice
like an archaeologist of hurt.
Now, I just end the call.
It is not peace.
It is not victory.
It is a door closing
in a house already full
of closed doors.

---

God is always reconciling.
He reaches without keeping count.
We, who keep count of everything,
do not know how to mimic
such a reckless love.

What does it mean,
this space between us?
No vow, no covenant—
only the quiet archaeology
of six years.
Are we just friends
holding the ghost of something
neither of us named?

The Bible says pursue peace.
But what does peace look like
when the war lives inside
the same chest?
Does it mean to cave?
To smile? To drive away
from the gas pump of your anger
and never look back?

Sometimes there are only seconds
to decide.
Sometimes you choose
and spend days replaying
the other choice.

---

This is us.
Do we want to be here
a year from now?
Ten?
Is this a whatever,
or a lock the doors?

I look for you in the verses.
I find you in the margins,
in the space between
love your neighbor
and do not let the sun go down.

They say God brings someone
to draw you closer to Him.
Have you drawn me closer?
Have I you?

In the beginning, I was on my knees.
Broken.
I mistook your voice for grace.
That was my sin,
not yours.
You were a person,
not a sacrament.

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Now, I wear the word surrender
sideways on my finger.
A reminder written in skin
when another left.
But surrender to what?
To whom?

People are beautiful, fallible.
They leave.
God does not leave.
So if I surrender,
let it be to what remains
when everything else has burned.

What does surrender look like
for us?
Perhaps it begins here,
with these words—
this quiet admission
that I cannot mend
what I did not break.

You will have to surrender, too.
We will have to let go
and leave a hollow space
for something holy to enter.

It is scary.
What we have now is scarier.
What it might mean to lose it all
is the scariest.

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So let us surrender.
Not to the cold,
but to whatever comes after.
The heater hums.
The cold holds.
And somewhere beneath this frozen ground,
spring is already dreaming
of green.