Who do you say that I am?

The phrase hangs heavy in the air like Florida humidity stealing my breath on a summer day.

Do you see me over the glimmer reflecting in your eyes?

Trappings shine blinding, stealing the senses.

Am I enough?

Thunder roars from clouds opening.

Light splits earth and air.

You touch the depths and rattle them with your fingertip.

You are enough and I am yours.

Who do you say that I am?

My name carved on white stone and only I can read it.

There, in a name, I find identity.

 “I will give him a white stone, and on the stone a new name written which no one knows except him who receives it.”

Revelation 2:17