Thoughts, Prayers & Art

There are moments in life when the weight of unspoken truth becomes too heavy to carry alone. The tears slip quietly through the cracks of our carefully composed smiles, and we find ourselves longing for a love that can hold the fullness of who we are—without fear, without condition, without shrinking.

I wrote The Weight of Unspoken Truth as a reflection of the deep ache that comes when authenticity meets resistance, when our truest selves are met with polite indifference or fragile love that wilts under the weight of honesty. In ministry, in life, and in community, I have seen how silence can masquerade as peace, how avoidance is mistaken for harmony, and how fear keeps us from stepping into the deeper waters of real connection.

But silence is not peace. It is, in truth, a slow and steady suffocation of the soul. It strips away the vibrancy of being, turning love into mere endurance and existence into something hollow. I have felt the ache of this reality—not just for myself, but for the world. For the ones who long to be seen in their fullness, for the refugees and immigrants seeking a place of belonging, for our communities that are so often asked to suppress their pain in order to make others comfortable.

And yet, even in the face of this tension, I remain hopeful. Hope is not an easy thing to carry, but it is holy work. I hold onto it with trembling hands, much like a rosary—prayer beads of longing, of mercy, of intention. Each tear is a prayer for a world that is too afraid to weep for itself, for a love that does not shrink, and for a peace that is rooted in truth rather than silence.

In my journey, both personal and pastoral, I have come to understand that feeling deeply is not a flaw. It is a sacred gift. The world may tell us that we are too much—too tender, too emotional, too open—but I believe this depth is where God moves most profoundly. It is in our breaking that we are made whole, in our vulnerability that we find strength, and in our honesty that love takes root.

Like the prophets of old who stood in the wilderness, carrying the burden of truth in a world that preferred comfort, I am reminded that we are not called to be small. We are called to rise. To speak. To love fiercely and without reservation. This is not an easy path, but it is a necessary one. It is a path of discipleship, of faith, and of unwavering love for a world that desperately needs it.

And so, I will not shrink. I will not disappear into the silence that so often threatens to consume us. I will continue to stand with fire in my bones and love in my hands, speaking for those who cannot, for those who will, and for those who are still finding their way.

My prayer is that we all find the courage to rise—to embrace the beauty and the ache, the sorrow and the joy, and to walk this journey of truth with compassion and grace. For even in our deepest grief, even in our longing, even in our unspoken truths, God is present. And that presence is enough to sustain us, to empower us, and to remind us that we are never alone.

Let us rise, together.

The Weight of Unspoken Truth

The tears come quietly,
slipping through the cracks of my smile,
falling into the spaces where
truth was meant to live
but never quite arrived.
They taste of longing,
of a love too vast for shallow waters,
too wild for their still and tidy rooms.

I walk among them,
faces painted with ease,
words dancing lightly
on the surface of a world
that trembles beneath us.
They talk of weather,
of plans,
of all the things that don’t matter,
while I hold the weight
of what they refuse to see.

They love me, they say—
but their love is quiet,
delicate,
a threadbare thing
that wilts beneath the weight
of who I truly am.
They want me gentle,
soft,
agreeable.
Shhh, they whisper,
don’t stir the waters.
But I am the waters.
I am the rising tide of unshed grief,
the pulse of something deeper,
the ache that will not be silenced.

Silence is not real peace –
It is violence wrapped in stillness,
a slow suffocation of the soul,
a knife pressed gently
against the throat of truth.
It strips away the colors of being,
turning vibrance to shadow,
turning love to endurance,
turning life
to mere existence.
They do not raise their voices,
but their quiet cuts deep.

It is a lonely thing,
this knowing,
this carrying of the unseen world.
They ask me to stay,
to smile,
to pretend their peace is enough.
But their peace is a shallow breath,
a brittle silence
that shatters
when truth presses too hard.

I feel their fear,
wrapped in polite conversation,
tied up with bows of indifference.
They do not want to know
how the earth shakes beneath my feet,
how my heart breaks
for all the beauty they ignore,
For every people, nation, immigrant, and refugee,
For my community and her people…
And so they call me too much,
too tender,
too open,
as if feeling were a flaw
instead of the fire that makes me whole.

Still, I stay.
I carry their burdens
in my trembling hands,
holding hope like a fragile thing
waiting to be seen.
I gather my tears,
a quiet offering,
and wear them like a prayer
beaded and draped
around my neck and in my hands,
threaded through my fingers, a rosary…
I hold each bead with careful care
attention, intention, dedication
mercy,
for a world too afraid
to weep for itself.

And in the stillness,
my heart aches for what could be—
for the love that lives beyond fear,
for hands that reach without trembling,
for voices that rise without restraint.
I grieve the distance
between what is
and what I know is possible,
a sorrow so deep
it echoes in the hollows of my chest.

I break,
again and again,
but even in breaking,
I remain whole.

And in the quiet that follows,
I gather the lessons pain has taught me—
the wisdom born from wounds,
the strength found in surrender,
the fierce love that refuses to fade.
I let the ache shape me,
not into something smaller,
but into something deeper,
more true,
more alive
than they will ever dare to be.

For even the prophets walked alone,
bearing the weight of distant truths,
aching under the burden
of a world too afraid to listen.
They stood in the wilderness,
with voices too strong for comfort,
too wild for the tame hearts
of those who would rather look away.
And yet, they spoke—
not for themselves,
but for those still learning how to hear.

I will not shrink.
I will not disappear.
These tears, this weight—
they are my gift,
my lament,
my unshaken truth.
I will rise,
with fire in my bones
and love in my hands,
speaking even when the silence
presses hard against my chest.
I will rise,
for the ones who cannot,
for the ones who will,
for the world that needs to feel again.