Charles Gregory, Author

They tried to cast me out—
from their false, man-made paradise.

Said I didn’t belong.
Said I wasn’t enough.
Not lovely enough
for their world.

Still, I stayed.
Not from pride.
Not from envy.
But because I belong.

Because I know what sacred soil is,
and I plant myself with purpose.

It was never their world—
just a borrowed blessing,
misused by wayward stewards.

They spent Heaven’s fruit recklessly—
on greed that gorged itself,
lust that left nothing behind,
indulgence with no end.

Then came the blades—
razor tongues,
honed on hatred.

They cut deep.

And yes,
I bled self-doubt—
shamefully,
quietly.

But I did not die.

I bloomed
in the wounds they gave me.

They tried to devour me,
consume me,
make me theirs—

to draw strength
from soil they never touched.

But you cannot devour
the unending nourishment of my soul—
drawn from a source
beyond comprehension.

So they poisoned me—
slow,
steady.

And I wilted.

But poison fades.

Grace-filled rain
washed the toxicity.
Warm-breathed light
healed me.
And the tender care
of the Good Gardener
brought me back.

The rooted rise again.

They scorched the earth around me,
turned my world to hellfire—
even if it burned them too.

Malicious self-harm,
as vengeance.

But something
would not let me perish.

They didn’t stop.
They drowned me,
not to merely harm,
but to flood me out of existence—

with chaos disguised as freedom,
lawlessness masked as liberation.

And they nearly won.

But still,
I remained.

Then they dug—
axes of bitterness in hand—
to uproot me,
to cast me out of the earth.

But they could not reach
what I was anchored to.

When all else failed,
they buried me.
Piled debris over me.
Cut off the light;
called me stubborn.

But I grew back.

Not from power.
Not from pride.
Not even from resilience.

I grew
because they could not kill
what they could not see.

They never saw
how deep my roots run.
How still
my spirit holds.
How thick
my will.

Yes, I survived.
But not untouched.
There are pieces of me
they’ll never know they took.
And yet—
I still chose to bloom.

Not because of me,
but because of where I’m rooted—
in what is eternal.
In what sustains.