Not a Ghost But a Living Branch

The afternoon sun is bright enough to see everything, including the polite smiles of people who think they are forgiving you. It feels like pity.

Like they are looking at the ghost of who you used to be and nodding kindly at a tragedy that isn't happening anymore. You want to scream that you are not that person, but the light in you does not need to defend itself.

There was a man blind from birth, and everyone assumed his condition was a punishment for someone's sin. Jesus said no—it was not a verdict on the past, but a canvas for what God might do now.

Your history is not the final word on your identity. The light does not look backward with pity; it looks forward with expectation.

It sees the person you are becoming, not the person you were. The kindness you receive is not for your old self.

It is recognition of the new thing growing in the middle of your day. You are not a museum exhibit of past failures.

You are a living branch, and the sap is still rising.