The Song Beneath Your Words

You played the recording back and heard it—the way your own voice now carries the rhythm of this place, not the lullaby you were born with. It sounds like a stranger speaking through your throat.

Like the melody of home has been overwritten by the cadence of survival. Tonight, the house is quiet enough to hear the difference.

And it hurts. But listen—there is a voice deeper than your accent, older than the place you live now.

It does not speak in the dialect of your current address. It speaks in the tongue of your origin.

When you cried out in the garden, overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death, the light did not correct your grammar. It simply reached out its hand immediately and caught you before you sank.

The grip does not depend on the accent. The hand that holds you knows the song beneath the words.

You are not defined by the rhythm you picked up on the road. You are defined by the One who called you before you ever spoke a word.