Dum spiro, spero

(The Believer’s Edition)

I hold the spoon to the child’s trembling lip saying, “Drink, it is sweet, it is life.” I know the chemistry of the cure; I have seen the dying rise and walk. Yet my throat is a desert while the medicine stays on the shelf. It is not a lie; it is a lack.

I go on to stand on the pedestal of the cathedral. I sing of a Love that never fails: a God who crafts a partner for every lonely rib; Grace that catches every falling sparrow. The notes rise like smoke, thick and holy. I believe every word. I see them sway, hearts captured by my melodies, their joy evident. I am overjoyed for their joy.

The melodies I make does nothing to my marrow. The performer goes home in the dark, believing in the light, but walking in the shadow. I am the architect of a home I do not live in. I am the chef of a feast I do not taste. It is not that I am a mask; it is that I am a conduit. Like a copper cable, the power passes through me to reach the masses but leaves me unchanged but with certainty of the truth that passes through me.

I preach the Love that I have seen, knowing He is too good to deny a soul its mate. I walk back to the mess, to the quiet clearing, waiting to hear the melodies I made for others.

Written by Sassenach; Edited by Chuma Banji