Alyssa F. O'Dochartaigh

Hello everyone! I hope and pray all of you are doing well.

I want to apologize for being a little absent this week. I have been prayerfully considering the direction of my next post and where I feel led to go from here. Originally, I had planned to share another original poem along with a connected YouTube video for my poetry series, which is still in progress and may be posted later tonight or tomorrow. If so, keep an eye out for “Lord, My God” (“The Calm Within the Storm”).

In the meantime, I felt it would be meaningful to share a small preview from one of my works in progress. Today’s excerpt comes from my devotional novella, Genesis Celeste: Living Like YOU ARE FORGIVEN. Please keep in mind that this piece is still in its early draft stages.

I hope you enjoy this glimpse into the work, and I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.

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Genesis Celeste: Living Like YOU ARE FORGIVEN

Chapter One

I’m not dead.

The words surfaced before my eyes even opened—not a prayer, but a sigh. Rays of white pierced the darkness behind my eyelids, and I flinched. The heat of the rising day pressed against my chest—thick, heavy, almost tangible—reminding me that I was still here.

The world felt distant, blurred at the edges. A breeze brushed across my face, stirring the scent of dust in the air. I turned my head, wincing as pain crawled down my spine, like a thousand needles stuck beneath my skin. My throat burned as I began to cough. I tried mumbling something to myself, but no words came. Just breath. Just the ache.

A shadow shifted across the light. I thought, for a moment, it was just a cloud blocking the sun—until I heard a voice.

“Good morning.”

The voice came from somewhere to my right—steady, low, and warm enough to startle me. I bolted upright, scraping my hand as I pushed myself back. My eyes flew open, blinking against the light until shapes began to form.

“It’s okay,” the voice reassured, quieter this time. “I’m a friend.”

I hesitated, blinking up at the figure beside me. He didn’t move closer, only waited.

A faint smile graced his lips, and patiently he added, “I’m heading into town, if you would care to join me?” He paused. tone shifting slightly. “I would be grateful for the company.”

He offered me a hand, but I remained still, unflinching, just… stuck.

Friend? I don’t even know him.

I stared—skeptical—studying the man before me.

He had the kind of face that carried a sort of peace about it—warm brown eyes framed by soft lines of kindness, a strong jaw softened by a neatly kept beard, and hair that fell in gentle waves just past his chin. His clothes were simple but worn from use: a faded gray hoodie over a cream-colored shirt, dark jeans slightly worn from travel, and sturdy shoes that had clearly covered many miles. A weathered canvas backpack hung from one shoulder, holding just the essentials. He looked like someone used to walking—someone who found meaning in the journey itself.

His smile widened, the crinkles by his eyes deepened, eyes sparkling as he gave me what must have been his best attempt at a joke, “Or you can sleep all day in this ditch, but I couldn’t imagine that would be very comfortable.”

There was something about the calm in his tone that disarmed me. Against my better judgment, I took his hand. His touch was firm but gentle, steadying me as I rose on trembling legs. When I was stable, he released my hand, and gathered my own backpack off the ground, helping me to slip the straps onto my shoulders.

“Now come, follow me,” he said.

Blindly, I followed him onto the main road, uncertain where exactly it lead. I guess I’ve been wandering so long now I don’t even know where I am anymore. Something in me was screaming to run—you could outrun him if you had to—but the greater part of me trusted him. There was just something about him… I couldn’t place it. At first glance, there was nothing remarkable about him, yet something about the way he carried himself—unhurried, peaceful, as if every step he took had a special sort of purpose.

Wish I had a purpose.

“Beautiful day, no?” His voice suddenly cut through the quiet, dragging me away from my thoughts.

“I-I suppose so,” I stuttered. I didn’t say anymore, and I was kind of hoping he wouldn’t either.

He spun around, still walking steady as if he were sure of every step without even seeing where he were going. “What is not so beautiful?” He asked, gesturing with open arms to the world around us, as if fully embracing it. “It may be hot, but the winds are still blowing. The sun is shining, providing light to our path and to our day. The birds…” he was almost whispering now, eyes closed, listening, but still moving, “Ah, the birds sing the most beautiful song of praise. And it is a day that the Lord has made—that should make every day beautiful, no?”

“I suppose,” I responded, again, unremarkably. “If you believe in God, I guess.”

My gut began twisting in knots, anxiety buzzing through my veins. I reached up, tucking back some hair that had blown loosely into my face. My eyes turned to the ground, as if studying my every step intently, but I could still see that he had turned back around, slowing his pace to match mine. I could feel a small warmth from him as I came alongside him.

“You do not believe?” It was more of a question than a statement, his tone carried a little more weight now.

“I-” I froze, realizing I didn’t truly know how to answer. He stopped walking a few steps ahead of me, and turned to face me. After several silent moments, I admitted, “I don’t know what to believe.” Something like shame welled up in my stomach, making me nauseous.

He took a step towards me, hands coming to rest on my shoulders. My gaze finally came to rest on his again, and I could feel the pinprick of tears in my eyes. There was a smile in his eyes, a sort of quiet reassurance.

“You have questions.” This time it was a statement, as if he knew everything in my heart. “Doubts.” He took a breath as if feeling everything that I felt. “There is a storm inside you that has not yet settled… but the Lord is one who commands all things, including the winds and waves, and he would settle the storm for you… if you would only ask.”

His hands moved to the straps of his bag, readjusting it on his shoulders. Then he turned, casting a backward glance as he said, “Now come, we still have a long journey ahead.”

***

We’d been walking for hours. The sun was just reaching its peak, the heat now scorching, tinting my skin a burnt pink. The green of the countryside faded into gray in the distance, the quiet into the low hum of traffic. A sign we were almost to the city.

I don’t know why, but seeing it made something in my chest tighten. Maybe because it looked alive—and I still didn’t feel like I should be. Maybe because I didn’t actually know where this was. I guess I had been traveling so long, at some point, I had stopped paying attention.

Was it far enough?

Would I be safe?

“Ah…” the stranger exhaled, and I jumped. I had almost forgotten he was there.

“The air changes here, do you notice? A bit of salt, the marsh… and look—can see the city forming on the horizon. We are getting close.”

“Um…” I began, unsure if I should ask for fear of sounding stupid, but I had to know, “where exactly is it that we’re going.”

“Baltimore.” He said, never missing a beat.

I blinked, caught off guard. “Oh.”

Had I really come that far?

He glanced at me, amusement tugging at his lips. “You mean you have come this far without knowing your destination?”

I looked away, an embarrassed blush creeping up my face. “I guess the destination was never really important,” I admitted. “But then, I never expected to get this far either.”

He smiled faintly. “Sometimes you don’t realize how far you’ve come until you finally look up. And never underestimate the importance of the destination. There is always a purpose in where you are headed.”

The last mile was walked in silence. It wasn’t awkward; it was… peaceful. Even as we became one with the hustle and bustle of the city, I wasn’t anxious anymore. Something about his presence, knowing he was right beside me… it’s as if he were peace itself.

The air smelled like a story—roasted coffee drifting from one side of the street, salt and old brick from the other. Lantern lights glowed in café windows. Somewhere nearby, someone was frying fish; the scent mingled with sugar and cinnamon from a bakery across the street.

Suddenly, there was a low rumble from my stomach. My face scrunched up, eyes closing as I took in a deep breath, hand massaging my aching belly. The low rumbling soon turned to deep, angry growls as the smells overwhelmed my senses.

How long has it been since I’ve eaten? Oh well, doesn’t matter. I don’t have the money for food anyways.

I didn’t realize that I had stopped walking until the stranger came up alongside me, asking, “Everything alright?”

When I couldn’t answer, he followed my gaze to the window, that I, too, finally realized I had been staring in, and he understood, “Ah,” he nodded, “my apologies. I have been inconsiderate of your needs. Come, we will get you something to eat.”

My gaze turned to his, a little panicked. “No! I-I’m fine.” But in that moment my stomach betrayed me with another growl, this one louder than the rest. At that, I didn’t dare look at him.

“I think your stomach says otherwise,” a hint of amusement creeping into his voice.

“You need food.” He finished a little more sternly, as if preemptively knowing my answer.

“But…” I kicked at the ground. “I don’t have any money, and I couldn’t pay you back.”

His hand came to rest on my shoulder, again, pulling my gaze back to his. “I will provide for you. Trust me.” There was a pause, but I didn’t answer.

You don’t even know me.

A smile graced his lips—as if he had heard my thoughts—and for the first time, I realized how beautiful it was, almost lighting the world around him.

“Come,” he said, one hand still on my shoulder, the other gesturing to the café, “let’s eat.”

***

The smell of coffee and sugar hit me before the door even closed behind us. It brushed against a memory I’d kept locked away—the kind of memory wrapped in sunlight and someone’s laughter. I turned from it quickly, instead embracing the warmth wrapped around me like a blanket, a stark contrast to the heat outside. The man smiled at the hostess as if they were old friends, and I followed him, still uncertain why I trusted him enough to come here at all.

Small, gold, lantern shaped light fixtures hung above every table, dimly lighting the room. The walls were a sea blue, creating an illusion of being on the ocean. As we slid into opposite sides of the corner booth towards the back of the restaurant, my attention was grasped by the design of the table—it was wood with a flowing turquoise epoxy through the center, creating the appearance of a winding river cutting through a rugged landscape.

I couldn’t help but trail my fingers across it, entranced and haunted. It was beautiful. So natural, but… turquoise was her favorite color.

I hadn’t even noticed my own hand clasping over my heart, fingers entwining with the fabric of my shirt. Nor did I notice the tear gliding down my cheek.

It was my fault. Mom, I’m sorry.

But she would never hear those words. And I would never be able to receive her forgiveness.

A sudden warmth covered my hand—not startling, just present—and it pulled me back from whatever place my mind had fallen into. I blinked hard, my vision spinning, and found the strangers hand resting over mine. His palm was rough, the callouses catching lightly against my skin, but his touch was steady, careful, like he was afraid I might break if he pressed to hard.

I looked up, expecting pity, but there was none.

He was just… there.

Fully, gently, knowingly there.

My breathe stuttered. I bit my lip, holding it in, as if I could trap the tears behind my teeth. But it was useless. They spilled anyway, warm trails slipping down my face even as I tried to blink them back.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “Do not be ashamed to cry. I know what you are going through.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. I tore my hand out from under his and turned toward the window, swiping at my face with quick, frantic movements. “I’m sorry,” I breathed, the words cracking in the middle. “I just—I’m sorry.”

My hands dove into my lap, fingers tightening until my nails bit into my palms. I kept my eyes on the floor. It was easier to look at nothing.

“You see a loved one, yes?”

The question hit too close, too sudden.

“Yes,” I choked, barely a whisper.

“It was your mother.” He continued softly. “And you are under the impression that her loss was somehow your fault.”

My head snapped up, but I couldn’t find my voice.

“You are plagued by guilt and shame,” he said, not accusing—simply stating a truth he shouldn’t have known. “And you are both grieved and relieved that you do not look like her; for one reason, you’re afraid you’ll forget her face… and for another, you’re afraid you’d see her every time you look in the mirror.”

My breathe caught on the edge of itself.

“H-how—”

Before I could finish, a bright voice burst into the space like sunlight through a storm cloud.

“Here you go!” the waitress chirped, “one coffee, black for the gentleman, and our house-made hot apple cider for the lady.”

The stranger turned toward her, his expression shifting so naturally it made me doubt what had just happened.

“Ah, yes, thank you, Ruby.”

He took his hot coffee in hand, placing it on the table, and then proceeded to pass the mug of hot cider across to me, saying, “I apologize, I went ahead and ordered drinks while you were… preoccupied. I hope what I selected was okay.”

I stared down at my mug as it hit the table, steam curling into the air. The scent of cinnamon, apple, and spices struck my senses, making a wave of calm sweep over me.

How did he…

I couldn’t even finish the thought. I was confused, though that didn’t even feel right enough to cover it. First the thing about my mother, and now—the drink I always go to for comfort, when all things seem wrong.

“You can always order something else if—” the stranger began, drawing my attention back to him.

“Um… no-no this is good. I just—it’s perfect.” I finished, almost curling in on myself as I drew the mug to my lips for the first sip. The liquid burned my throat as I drank it, but it remained to be a small comfort in the greater situation I was finding myself in.

I few minutes passed and again, though I shouldn’t have been surprised, the waitress brought out our food, mine being one of my favorites—a reuban with a side of sweet potato fries. I eyed him skeptically as he thanked the waitress again, before she headed back to take care of another table.

I don’t even have to say a word, he just… knows. How can this be?

“Let us pray,” he said, stretching his hand out across the table. Unsure of what to say, I took his hand, bowed my head, and closed my eyes as he asked a blessing on the food. “Heavenly Father, we thank you for this bountiful blessing you have placed before us, and for always providing our every need. We ask Your blessing upon the remainder of this day, and thank You for the company we share. May Your peace rest upon us. Amen.”

As we opened our eyes, he gestured to my plate, not even giving me a chance to speak as if he, too, knew what I was about to ask. “Please, eat. You must be famished after such a long journey. Then, when we are finished, we can talk.”

***

When we finished eating, the stranger began collecting our dishes and stacking them, making the cleanup easier for the waitress later as he set them at the end of the table for her to collect. He looked across at me, a small smile gracing his lips. That look of knowing still sparkling in his eyes. He leaned into the table, hands folding together, as if ready to speak, but I didn’t give him the chance.

“How?” I blurted.

He raised his eyebrows in question. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t—” I began again, hand raised as if that could stop him, “don’t pretend you don’t know.” My gaze was firm, serious but not quite angry. Maybe more so confused, and just a bit concerned I should be afraid of him at this point.

“You will have to be more specific.” He played on, as if he truly had no clue as to what I meant.

I made sharp gestures with my hands—to the plates, the cup, the table.

“You. Do not. Know me.” I paused, just briefly, but no answer. “So how… my favorite drink, my favorite food, you even knew about my mother and how I—” I couldn’t come to say it. He’s right, I do blame myself. I am not guiltless on that front.

He shifted in his seat, though obviously not uncomfortably. He seemed at ease, even though I could not, and it frustrated me. He continued to stare for a moment, still not answering, gaze boring into mine as if he could read everything within me, to the very depths of my soul. When he did finally answer, it was nothing I expected him to say, but then… how can I have any expectation of him at this point?

“You look like your father,” he said gently, as if reminding me of something beautiful, not lost.

I gasped, holding the breath for a moment before I breathed, “What? Y-you know my father?”

But he didn’t answer, he just continued as if I hadn’t said a word. “Your eyes are like chestnuts; your hair is long—such a glory it is—and the color of a light caramel. Just like your father.”

I wanted to say something, but my throat felt tight. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. Not a word, nor a noise passed through my lips. My hands were now gripping the edge of the table, nails digging into the wood. My legs shifted, feet pointed towards my exit, but I didn’t run. Not yet.

“You were made so beautifully, and your spirit is so tender, so kind, and you have such a yearning within you… that you do not know, yet, where it will take you. You were formed so carefully by the hands of the Father,” this time he pointed to the heavens, “yet you are so consumed by guilt and shame—for something that was not even done by your hands, nor in any way your fault—that you would reject yourself rather than embracing yourself. Thus, you have rejected the Father, you have told Him the works of His hands are not good enough.”

“I don’t understand.” I wasn’t sure he heard me, my voice was barely a whisper. I was lost. First, he talks about how I look like my father, then he says I have rejected God by not embracing myself.

“Genesis—” his voice cut through my thoughts, my confusion, just barely drawing me back, “pay close attention to what I am about to say.”

“How do you know me? I never told you my name.”

“And I never asked, but I don’t have to. I am one who knows all things.”

“How?”

“Focus,” he replied, instead of answering, again, “we are running out of time.”

“What do you mean? Why are we running out of time?”

Again, he ignored my questions, “Look, there, across the street…” he waited till I directed my attention out the window to where he was pointing, “there is a little coffee shop right there on the corner. You see it?”

His words were urgent, causing a sort of panic within me. “Yes!”

“In eight days’ time, at this precise hour, I want you to meet me there. We have much to discuss, Genesis, but for now I’m afraid our time has run out.”

My eyes were wide, fearful as I turned back to face him.

“Why is time running out? Who are you that you know all these things about me?”

“I know things don’t make sense right now, and these things shall soon be revealed to you, but not at this time. For now,” he got so pressingly close, I almost couldn’t breathe. His hands cupped my face, not forcefully, yet I couldn’t help but be petrified. “I need you to wake up.”

“What?” My hands wrapped around his wrists, undecided whether to break loose and run. “I don’t understand. What do you mean—”

“Wake up, Genesis! Now is the time, wake up!”

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This is only the beginning.