Your Survival Is Not A Crime

The morning light feels heavy today, like a costume you put on before the world arrives. You walk through the motions, smiling at the right moments, while a secret terror whispers that your breath is a theft from those who cannot take another.

That you are an imposter in the land of the living, surviving on borrowed time that belongs to the dead. But listen — the light does not keep a ledger of who deserves to rise with the sun.

It shines on the grave and the cradle with the same indiscriminate grace. There is a story of a woman who washed feet with her tears, and the voice that spoke to her did not calculate her worth or her debt.

It simply said: your many sins have been forgiven — as your great love has shown. You are not stealing anything.

You are being given everything, again and again, because the light cannot be hoarded by the dead any more than it can be earned by the living. The air in your lungs is not a loan; it is a gift that renews itself every second you are here.

Go home to your own people and tell them how much the Lord has done for you, and how he has had mercy on you. Your survival is not a crime.

It is the mercy.