Glass box

I asked God what He thinks of me, and instead of words, He showed me a room.

It was small and dark, quiet in the way that an old churches feel quiet… It was heavy with stillness, but it wasn’t empty. And the kind of darkness that doesn’t threaten you, it simply waits with you. 

And in the center of the room sat a glass box.

Its edges were wooden, and hand carved with ancient and delicate detail, like something crafted slowly and intentionally by someone who loved what they were making. The wood looked warm against the darkness. Worn smooth in places. Imperfect in the most beautiful way.

Inside the box was light.

Not a harsh light. It wasn’t blinding.

It was a soft golden hue. A living light.

And there suspended inside it was glitter… it

There were thousands of tiny shimmering pieces drifting slowly like snowfall inside of a snow globe. Every movement caught the light differently. Tiny galaxies spinning in the silence.

I remember staring at it, overwhelmed by how beautiful it was, and asking Him quietly, “What is this?”

And I felt Him smile before He ever said a word…

“This is you.”

The words hit somewhere deep in me. Somewhere tender. Somewhere childlike.

I looked closer, and then, I knelt near the box. The glitter wasn’t random or a joke. 

Every piece that fluttered inside felt intentional. One shimmer carried creativity. Another carried compassion. Another joy. Another resilience. Another gentleness. Another fire. Dreams I had buried. Words I stopped writing. A kind of wonder I thought adulthood had taken from me. Parts of me I had forgotten He placed there.

And He let me sit there for a moment, just watching it all float in the light until it settled at the bottom of the box. 

Then His hand reached toward the box and gently shook it.

Suddenly the glitter exploded upward in a storm of gold and silver. Light bounced vividly against the glass walls, filling the entire room with movement. What had settled quietly at the bottom became alive again. It danced. It spun. It reflected light in every direction.

And I laughed.

Not because it was funny, but because it felt like joy. Pure joy. The kind children feel without needing a reason.

Like being small again, sitting in front of a Christmas tree with all the lights off except the ones glowing from the branches. 

Holding a snow globe in both hands. Shaking it over and over because the wonder of it never got old. Watching the glitter swirl like magic while the world outside stayed still.

And God whispered,

“That wonder in you came from Me.”

I felt tears rise then because somewhere along the way I had mistaken survival for living. I had become so focused on enduring life that I stopped noticing the light inside me. Stopped believing there was still beauty in me worth stirring awake.

But He never forgot.

He showed me how the glitter reflected even in the darkness of the room. Not because the room changed, but because light was already inside the box..

Then I looked again at the glass walls surrounding everything beautiful inside. 

And suddenly the box felt different. It wasn’t just beautiful. It was confining.

I asked Him, “Why am I inside it?”

And His response felt like a gentle nudge.

“Because you learned to survive by becoming small enough to contain.”

The line shattered my heart.

Because He was right.

I made myself manageable. Quiet. Careful. Easy to tuck away. I kept my gifts protected instead of poured out. I convinced myself that staying still was safer than risking movement. Safer than hoping. Safer than being seen.

But glitter was never created to sit untouched at the bottom of a box.

It was created to move.

To catch light.

To make people stop and wonder.

And God showed me that every time He has shaken my life… Every disappointment, every transition, every heartbreak, every season that disrupted my comfort, it was never Him trying to destroy me. He was stirring what had settled.

Because dormant things can forget they are alive.

I think that’s why the room was dark. So I could see how brightly the light inside me still burned.

Then I asked Him the question sitting hardest on my heart.

“What if I break?”

And this time His voice felt closer. Softer. Like a Father kneeling beside His child.

“Oh, beloved… maybe the box is what breaks.”

The glass was never my identity.

It was only the container.

The fear.

The hiding.

The limitations.

The belief that I had to stay contained to stay safe.

Those things are fragile compared to the life He has placed inside of me.

And one day the walls will not be able to hold the light anymore.

One day the glitter will not just dance inside a tiny room, it will scatter into the world around me. Into conversations. Into art. Into kindness. Into people desperate for hope. Into every dark place aching for something beautiful to reflect.

And maybe that is what becoming is.

Not becoming someone new.

But finally allowing what God placed inside you to rise to the surface.

To move again.

To shine again.

To live again.