The Sound That Lifts You Up

The afternoon sun is bright, but inside your chest, the air is thin. You are holding a sound so heavy it feels like it could bring the roof down if you finally let it out.

So you swallow it. Again.

And again. You tell yourself that silence is the only thing keeping the walls standing.

That if you make a noise, everyone will run, and you will be left in the rubble of your own making. But listen — the light does not flee from the crash.

It walks into the ruin before the dust even settles. There was a man who had been crippled for thirty-eight years, lying beside a pool where everyone believed healing only happened when the water stirred.

He had given up on making a sound. He had perfected the art of explaining why he couldn't move.

And the light walked straight to him, ignored the crowd, and asked the one question that breaks the spell: 'Do you want to get well?' Not 'do you want to be quiet?' Not 'do you want to keep your secrets?' It asked if he wanted to stand. The terror says the sound will destroy you.

The truth says the sound is the only thing that can lift you up. Your voice will not collapse the house.

It will be the hand that reaches down to pull you out of the dirt.