I’ve often thought that the ten seasons I spent waiting would be my last. I never imagined another season would arrive—one where my heart would still find itself fluttering. Sometimes I wonder if heaven has taken pity on me, or if it is gently leading me into yet another season of trials and refinement.

Ever since I stopped living obliviously and began paying closer attention—not only to the people around me but also to my own feelings and reactions—I have realized how much I have changed. I notice the way people treat one another. I recognize genuine kindness just as readily as subtle wounds. I have become more aware of my own words, my responses, and the condition of my heart. I find myself feeling deeper sorrow when others suffer and greater joy whenever goodness quietly takes root.

There was once a version of me that believed love meant giving until nothing remained. I lived to serve, often forgetting that my own heart needed tending too. I rarely stopped to ask what I needed because I was too busy making sure everyone else was cared for.

Years ago, I prayed that Heavenly Father would open my eyes—that He would allow me to see the world through a different lens. Looking back now, I believe He answered that prayer.

I also have one quiet soul to thank.

When I feared my heart would spend a lifetime grieving someone who never truly understood how much I had poured into us, another person entered my life. I still don’t quite know what to do with his presence except to call him my little flower—a gentle bloom that appeared in my garden without asking for anything in return.

He has been remarkably kind, thoughtful, and every bit the gentleman I once believed existed only in stories. I don’t quite know where to place such goodness within my garden anymore. It feels both unfamiliar and precious. I find myself praying that it is not simply a passing season, but that his kindness remains as enduring as the goodness of his soul.

What frightens me most is not him—it is what he has awakened within me.

The walls I spent years building to protect my heart have begun to crack, despite every attempt to mend them. I am afraid that the feelings growing inside me may never be returned, and so I remind myself to stand my ground.

If I were to take that risk, would he step away?

Or would he choose to draw closer?

It is a question I am not yet brave enough to answer.

For now, I find peace in the quiet friendship we have. I fear that one impulsive step could create a distance that does not exist today, and I would rather preserve what we have than lose it altogether.

Still, I cannot help but be grateful for him.

He has never made me feel like an inconvenience. Every time I have asked for his help or invited him to something, he has met me with a willing heart. His generosity is never loud, only consistent. How could I not be drawn to someone whose heart gives so freely?

There is something undeniably precious about him—so much so that I cannot bear the thought of him being hurt.

These past few days, I’ve found myself reflecting on our conversations and the ordinary moments we’ve shared. More than anything, I have come to admire the way he carries himself. He listens before he speaks. He pauses before making a judgment. He chooses understanding before assumption. In a world that often rushes to be heard, there is something profoundly beautiful about someone who is willing to slow down long enough to truly see another person.

The other day, I found myself returning to Elder Gerrit W. Gong’s message, Love Is Spoken Here. He taught that the gospel speaks love through three beautiful languages: warmth and reverence, service and sacrifice, and covenant belonging.

As I reflected on those three languages, I realized they were the very qualities I had come to admire.

Love is spoken in the way someone pauses before responding instead of reacting.

Love is spoken in the willingness to serve without keeping score.

Love is spoken in making another person feel safe enough to be themselves.

I think that is what has drawn me to him the most.

He has become a gentle balance to my own spirit—the calm to my haste, the reason to my emotion, the quiet to my noise. Where I often feel deeply, he grounds himself in careful thought. Where I instinctively rush to mend every broken branch in my garden, he reminds me that some things simply need time to grow.

That may be why my walls have begun to soften.

Not because he has tried to tear them down, but because he has never once asked me to.

He has simply stood outside them with patience.

Maybe this season was never meant to teach me how to fall in love.

Maybe it was first meant to teach me how to recognize Christlike love when I see it.

For now, it is enough that we remain exactly where we are: caring for one another without expectation, enjoying each other’s company without forcing what has not yet been written. Some flowers are not meant to be picked the moment they bloom. Some are simply meant to be admired while they grow.

And if this season is meant to become something more, I trust that heaven will unfold it in His own time.

Until then, I will simply be grateful that my little flower found his way into my garden—and that, after believing my garden had withered long ago, Heavenly Father reminded me that it was still capable of blooming.

I believe that is heaven’s answer to the prayer I offered years ago—not simply to let me see the world differently, but to let me recognize the many ways His love is spoken here.

Sometimes through scripture.

Sometimes through covenants.

And sometimes through the gentle character of one of His children.

Until my heart is brave enough to speak, I will let it remain where it has learned to flourish—in gratitude.

After all, before love is ever spoken, it is first received.

And perhaps that has been heaven’s quiet lesson all along.

Perhaps that has been the language of my heart all this time.

Love,
Ang 🌸