the terror that speaking the fragile truth out loud will make it evaporate into something ordinary and small

The sun is just now touching the horizon, and you are holding your breath. You have carried a truth through the long night, fragile and glowing, and now the morning air feels too rough for it.

You are afraid that if you speak it, the magic will evaporate. That the words will make it small.

Ordinary. Safe.

But look at the light arriving right now. It does not hide in the dark to stay holy.

It steps into the world. It hits the dust, the pavement, the tired faces on the train.

And it does not become less. It becomes visible.

There was a man blind from birth who was healed in the mud of a ordinary morning. When they asked him what happened, he did not give a sermon.

He said: I was blind, but now I see. Simple words.

Earthy words. And the light did not vanish when he spoke them.

It spread. Your truth is not a bubble that pops in the daylight.

It is a seed. It needs the air.

It needs the risk of being heard to become real. Speak it.

Let it land on the ground. The light is not afraid of the ordinary.