You Will Not Dissolve When You Cry

The afternoon sun is bright, and the dust is thick, and you are holding your breath because you believe the shaking is the only thing keeping your bones together. You think if you finally let the tears fall, the dam will break and there will be nothing left of you but a puddle on the floor.

But the light knows what it is to be overwhelmed to the point of death, to fall on its face in the dirt and beg for the cup to pass. It did not dissolve.

It held. There is a river flowing from the throne, clear as crystal, and it does not wash you away — it sustains you.

The leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations, not their destruction. You are not a vessel that will shatter if it fills; you are a branch that was made to carry the weight of the rain.

The terror says you will disappear. The truth says you will finally be found.