His Thread
I used to say I found my way as if direction were a muscle I had trained, as if my spine had learned the map by bending enough times toward the light. I told stories where I was the hero. Small, brave, clever. Listening closely to my heart. Following a voice that sounded like my own. I believed in effort. In instinct. In the sacred intelligence of survival. And yet, whenever the dark grew articulate, Whenever despair learned my name, There appeared a filament; golden, impossible, unfrayed. Looping through the chaos like a sentence refusing to end. I mistook it for resolve. There were moments. Too many to count. Too radiant to catalog. Moments when I should have fallen clean out of myself. Moments that claimed me, cornered me. Asked for blood or silence in return. I said, "He saved me." , THEN. But then became many 'thens', stacked so thick with mercy that the word 'then' began to collapse. Because the truth is, He never arrived late. Salvation had already been...
