Salt Still Seasons

I saw a small light

on a small screen…

laughter laid lightly

across a living room.

A mother and daughter

dancing in daylight,

joy stitched softly

over old sorrow,

gladness gently growing

over grief once known.

An enduring thought.

And my heart…

still soft from scars…

sent simple, steady

words of encouragement

into the wind.

Words borrowed humbly

from the hills of Galilee

a place where

the quiet ones

season the world.

Salt that softens.

Light that lingers.

No trumpet.

No thunder.

Just truth traveling

through trembling thumbs

thumbs that have touched

trial and time,

sorrow and survival,

enough to be more than

mere thumbs.

Selah.

Yet kindness, it seems,

can be questioned.

And encouragement…

misread.

A seed

sent in sincerity

returned as suspicion,

a gift given freely

greeted with doubt.

So silence settled.

Stillness stayed.

Selah.

And somewhere between

sleep and surrender

I placed the weight of it

into the hands of heaven.

For the Teacher had warned

long before me…

that light is not always loved,

and salt sometimes stings;

that truth may be offered

and still be refused.

The words remain

in the worn wisdom

of the Gospel:

Blessed are the misunderstood,

the meek, the merciful…

for heaven hears

what earth misreads,

and heaven remembers

what earth forgets.

Selah.

And in that quiet place

thought gathered slowly.

A cloud of witnesses

would share.

The old philosopher

whispers across the years…

that those who walk honestly

often wander alone

not because they wound the world

but because they refuse

to wear its masks,

refuse to trade truth

for comfort.

Selah.

And the oft-rejected

martyr-pastor

reminds the soul…

that love offered freely

must not demand

its return.

Serve.

Speak truth.

Release the rest.

Selah.

While the careful counselor

leans quietly

into the moment…

telling us that in a world

suspicious and strained,

even goodness

must travel gently

through fragile ground,

and wisdom must walk

where trust is thin.

Selah.

And the patient shepherd

speaks softest of all…

calling the faithful forward

into

a long obedience

in the same direction

step after step,

season after season.

Selah.

And so the lesson settles.

Not bitter.

Not brash.

But balanced.

Encouragement is sacred

but soil still matters.

Seeds are sincere

yet ground must receive them.

Selah.

Some seeds

seek sorrowed soil

where broken ground

welcomes rain.

Others fall

on fields already full

and are mistaken

for stones.

Still…

salt does not sulk

when the stew refuses it.

Light does not argue

with the night.

It simply remains

what it was made to be,

shining steadily

whether seen or scorned.

Selah.

So I will carry

quiet courage forward…

speaking carefully,

serving sincerely,

letting humility

hold the helm,

letting patience

pace the path.

For somewhere ahead

another weary heart waits,

and perhaps there

the seed will settle

and the soil will soften.

Selah.

Until then

I walk on…

steady and still…

salt in my pocket,

light in my lantern,

trusting the quiet promise

spoken long ago:

that truth planted in love

never dies,

even when it disappears

for a season

beneath the soil,

hidden for a while

yet holding life.

And somewhere

perhaps on another small screen,

in another quiet room

light will laugh again.

Selah.