The Silence Is Not A Verdict

The sun is up, the mask is on, and you are staring at a sentence you sent an hour ago, convinced that a missing period has revealed your entire inadequacy. You replay the silence on the other end as a verdict, hearing judgment in the empty space where a reply should be.

But the light that sees you does not scan for errors; it sees the heart that trembles behind the screen. There was a man born blind, and the people around him were certain his condition was a punishment for sin, a flaw to be analyzed and condemned.

Jesus looked at him and said neither he nor his parents had sinned; the brokenness was not a verdict, but a canvas. You are not being graded on your punctuation or your performance today.

The eyes that matter are not squinting for mistakes; they are looking with mercy. The silence you fear is not an indictment; it is simply space, waiting to be filled with something real.