The Kind That Holds

Real love is not the spark—
it’s the slow-burned timber
stacked by hand,
one quiet choice at a time,
until winter’s breath
can’t put it out.
It’s the irony of a flame
that doesn’t boast,
yet warms everything within reach.

It is less like a rose
and more like the soil—
dark, unnoticed,
and willing to cradle the roots
so something else can bloom.
It’s the long patience
of turning toward the sun
even when the clouds linger
longer than promised.

Genuine love is the river
that bends without breaking,
carving its way through stone
not by force,
but by persistence.
It is steady enough
to wear down mountains,
humble enough
to carry fallen leaves
without complaint.

It is the quiet art
of giving up the front seat,
the last word,
the easy path—
choosing instead
the slow climb beside another soul.
It is the strange arithmetic
where losing your turn
somehow adds wholeness
to another’s day.

This kind of love
is a lantern carried through valleys—
its glow often unseen
because it shines forward,
not inward.
It is the daily choosing
to be a shelter instead of a storm,
a blessing instead of a burden,
a bridge instead of a wall.

And maybe the greatest wonder is this:
real love rarely feels dramatic.
It arrives as a soft-spoken miracle—
a hand washed when tired,
a schedule rearranged,
a dream paused
so another can rise.
It is the holiness of the ordinary,
the sacred weight
of putting someone else first.

No grand speeches.
No fireworks.
Just the quiet courage
to show up—
again and again—
until your presence
becomes the promise
your words could never keep.

If this poem stirred something in your heart, remember that the deepest roots grow from God’s Word itself. “Thy word have I hid in mine heart, that I might not sin against thee” (Psalm 119:11). If you’d like simple, practical help in tucking Scripture into memory…

👉 Sign up for the free FAST Crash Course in Bible Memorization: http://fast.st/cc/21419