the specific terror of trying to recount a cherished memory to a friend and realizing the story has lost its texture, leaving you speaking flatly about something that used to make your hands shake

The Light Burns Beyond Your Flat Words

The middle of the day is when the colors start to fade. You open your mouth to share a memory that once made your hands shake, and the words come out flat, like dust.

It feels as if the life has leaked out of the story while you weren't looking. But the light does not depend on your ability to recount it perfectly.

There is a spring of water welling up inside you that has nothing to do with your performance or your fading voice. The texture was never in the telling; it was in the One who lived it within you.

Your flatness cannot extinguish what is already burning in your bones.

Drawing from

John, Gospel of Thomas

Verses

John 4:14, Thomas 24

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