The Stranger Who Knows Your Name

The sun is up, but your voice sounds like a stranger's in the morning air. You try to speak hope into the silence, to remind yourself of who you are, and the words feel foreign on your tongue.

Like you are reciting a script written for someone else. Like the person who survived the night is not the person who has to face the day.

But listen—there was a woman who stood weeping outside a tomb, convinced the story was over, until a voice spoke her name. She did not recognize the speaker at first.

She thought he was the gardener. But when he said 'Mary,' the stranger became the only one she knew.

The light does not ask you to manufacture a voice you do not have yet. It simply speaks your name until you remember the sound.

You are not a stranger to yourself. You are just waking up to the voice that has been calling you all along.