Lift Your Head

By Anda Wood based on Romans 8:37

When the road is long and your strength feels small,

And shadows stretch like a growing wall,

Lift your eyes—you’re not alone,

Each step you take, He makes His own.

Though paths are steep and strength may fade,

New mercies come to lend you aid.

You’re not alone in what you face;

His quiet hand still holds your place.

So lift your head when storms draw near,

Your tears are seen, your cries are clear.

Stand firm in love, walk through that door—

With God beside you, you need no more.

© 2025 Anda Wood. All rights reserved.

 (I wrote these lyrics for my parents' anniversary to be sang with the congregation to the tune of “How Great Thou Art.”)

By Anda Wood, based on 1 Corinthians 13

Verse 1

O Lord, we thank You for the gift of loving,

A bond that time and trials cannot erase.

With hands of grace, so kind and ever caring,

You filled our hearts with peace and warm embrace.

Chorus

Love is our song, it shines through every time,

It bears all things through nights and days.

Love keeps no score; it finds delight in truth;

It lifts us up. Love hopes and stays.

Verse 2

Through all the years, still ever gently learning

The depths of joy, or what true kindness means.

Yet side by side, in gentleness we're growing,

In patient love that holds through all unseen.

Chorus

Love is our song, it shines through every time,

It bears all things through nights and days.

Love keeps no score, it finds delight in truth,

It lifts us up. Love hopes and stays.

Verse 3

And when we stand before You, love still shining,

What once was dim will then be crystal clear.

For faith and hope will fade into Your glory,

But love remains — eternal and sincere.

Final Chorus

Love is our song, it shines through every time,

It bears all things through nights and days.

Love keeps no score, it finds delight in truth,

It lifts us up — love never fails.

© 2025 Anda Wood. All rights reserved.

by Anda Wood based on Proverbs 12:22

Truth may tremble on the tongue,

Like dawn before the day’s begun.

It stings, it shines, it breaks the night—

Yet in its glow, we find what’s right.

Not forged in pride or sharpened blame,

But clothed in love, it speaks no shame.

Peace walks with truth, hand clasped in grace,

And leaves a light in every place.

To walk in truth is to be whole—

With steady hands and quiet soul.

No need to hide, no mask to wear,

Just sacred peace, breath of fresh air.

© 2025 Anda Wood. All rights reserved.

by Anda Wood 

I baked a cake—

cherries folded into soft batter

of sugar and almond flour

measured with care,

hoping for something special.

The sweet aroma filled the house,

warm and full of promise.

Golden batter rising slowly,

patiently,

under steady heat.

But when I took the first bite,

something was missing.

Not sweetness,

not time, nor care—

but the essence.

A few drops of almond essence—

Small. Unseen.

But everything.

I thought of love.

It’s not loud,

not always understood,

but it’s what makes everything whole.

It waits when others rush.

It speaks gently

when silence would be safer.

It forgives

when pride whispers 

and hearts ache for justice.

Love clings to truth,

protects when it’s hard, 

trusts when it’s risky, 

hopes when it hurts,

endures when 

leaving would be easier.

Without love,

even what’s good—

faith, hope, joy,

generosity, service, sacrifice—

taste flat.

Impressive, maybe.

But incomplete.

Love is the essence.

Invisible and powerful.

The drop that changes

everything.

© 2025 Anda Wood. All rights reserved.

by Anda Wood 

How long will we call evil good

just because it wears a suit,

holds a mic,

smiles on camera,

and speaks really fast?

How long will we call good naïve —

when it speaks of a better way,

when it chooses peace,

when it opens its hands,

when it cries for strangers

and doesn’t look away?

There’s so much noise.

But underneath it —

so much ache.

Another headline.

Another name.

Another reason to lose hope.

Another candlelit photo framed by grief.

Another family learning how to live with a hole.

We treat pain like content —
just part of the feed.

A scroll,

a sigh,

a shrug.

But these are people.

Real ones.

With birthdays and habits,

favorite songs, 

and people who wanted them to come home.

Where did we lose the weight of a human life?

When did we become numb

to the sound of a mother breaking

or children growing up too fast

because the world refused to grow up at all?

We battle in threads, 

but shrink from touch.

And type in all caps,

but stay silent in person.

We post about unity,

but won’t sit beside the hurting.

We talk about justice

until it costs us something.

We say "love wins"

but live like fear already did.

Still —

in the quiet corners of this world,

something softer survives.

A stranger paying for someone’s meal.

A text that says “I miss you.”

A hug reminding you’re not alone.

A child drawing rainbows on cracked concrete.

It’s not loud.

But it’s real.

And maybe that’s enough

to keep the heart from closing.

So how long?

How long will we pretend

this isn’t breaking us?

How long

before we remember

that goodness isn’t weakness —

it’s the strongest thing we’ve got left?

And maybe,

if we choose it,

again and again and again—

we’ll start to feel human.

We'll start to feel.

Again.

© 2025 Anda Wood. All rights reserved.

by Anda Wood 

They told me,

you should stop talking,

should smile more,

should pray louder,

should dress like dignity wrapped itself in linen,

walked into church and sang in choir.

Should,

should,

should—

a restless hammer striking empty air.

But I didn’t change.

Not really.

Hoping to be accepted,

loved,

liked,

I learned to mimic obedience—

each nod a quiet betrayal of myself.

I polished masks,

perfected apologies,

and learned to smile through pain.

But still—

no resurrection in me.

No spark.

Until one day,

quiet like a whisper in my own chest,

a deeper Voice than mine said:

“I AM.”

Not “You should.”

Not “You failed.”

Not “Try harder.”

Just—

I AM.

And something true awoke in me.

I finally came forth.

I looked at my own reflection,

tired of wearing a costume—

high-necked with guilt,

hemmed in judgment.

And I whispered back:

I am better than the roles I played.

I am better than how I behaved.

I am better—finally believing it.

And a new person emerged.

I am—

valuable.

I am—

enough.

I am—

called.

I am—

changed,

not because someone told me, “You should,”

but because the Great I AM

said my name in the dark,

and I finally listened.

And now,

when I move,

I don’t move to prove anything—

I move with purpose,

walking with the I AM,

sharing love that heals others 

like it healed me.

No shoulds.

Just grace.

Just glory.

Just the I AM.

© 2025 Anda Wood. All rights reserved.

by Anda Wood 

She was strength in silk,

meant to stand beside him,

a steady voice when his hands shook,

a home built on faith and grit.

She learned the shape of his silence

like braille,

read every bruise on his heart

with calloused compassion.

Held back her own needs

to tend to the weight of his.

She patched the holes his day had torn—

threaded his wounds with whispered faith,

stitched her strength

into the seams of his silence.

And still,

she stayed.

He sank slowly,

like evening light crawling

through broken blinds—

barely enough warmth to thank her,

too late to see her,

too empty to hear her.

No turning tide.

Because loving him

had emptied her.

Supporting him

had bent her will.

Fighting his battles

had made them hers.

She taught him how to be whole,

and forgot how to be held.

So now she watches him,

her hands, too tired to reach,

and wonders,

as she walks away, 

if he’ll ever know

that the cost of his peace

was her own.

© 2025 Anda Wood. All rights reserved.

by Anda Wood 

By light or dark, in silence or storm,

some carry unshaken grief—

unasked, unchosen.

Trauma doesn’t knock before entering.

Loss leaves its wreckage behind.

Pain doesn’t ask

if now is a good time.

Still, we show up.

Not to fix—

but to stay.

We do not measure time

in healing.

We do not flinch

at anger.

We do not praise survival

to bypass the sorrow.

We do not say:

“You’re strong.”

Or: “You’ll be better for this.”

We say:

“This never should have happened 

to you.”

We do not rush

the tide of grief—

its return is healing,

its rhythm its own.

Instead, we choose

present compassion—

love that stays,

over comfort.

Over control.

Over commentary.

We cry with them—

if they cry.

We rage beside them—

if they rage.

We listen—

if they share.

We sit in stillness—

if the sorrow is too great.

There is no saving to be done.

Not fixing.

But holding.

Honoring.

Only the quiet miracle

of not turning away,

a flicker of fortitude.

A whisper:

You are not alone.

Even now.

Even here.

And maybe—

that is what love looks like

when it cannot undo:

Be present.

Give compassion. 

© 2025 Anda Wood. All rights reserved.