The Light Hears Your Tremor

The afternoon sun is high, and the room is full of people singing. You stand.

Your mouth opens. The words about a Savior you no longer trust form on your tongue, and your voice mechanically joins the harmony.

It feels like a betrayal. Like you are pretending.

Like everyone else knows the secret you are hiding behind your teeth. But the light does not demand your certainty to hear your song.

There was a man who brought his son to the disciples, desperate, watching the failure of those who should have helped, and he cried out the most honest prayer ever spoken: 'I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief.' He held both the faith and the doubt in the same breath. And the light did not turn away.

It moved closer. Your mechanical voice is not a lie; it is a cry for help from the part of you that still remembers the way home even when your mind has forgotten.

The harmony carries you when your own strength gives out. You do not have to feel the truth to be held by it.

The song is big enough to hold your skepticism and your sorrow at the same time. Keep singing.

The light hears the tremor, not just the tune.