The Beacon and the Broken

You are truly significant.

Even when it doesn't feel like it, your presence and contributions are invaluable.

Never forget that you matter deeply.

I stand like a beacon, guiding others through the thickest fog.

A beacon of hope through the storm.

I live with a chronic condition, and the weight of my past reverberates throughout my life.

Because of this condition, I have prostituted myself, slept in the wilderness, and have been guided through psychotic thinking.

Yet, at this moment with you, I am sane, reasonable, and aware.

I've been given another chance to make a difference in my life and the lives of others.

Where is the all leading to?

Why do we suffer?

Why does it all matter?

Thoughts like these echo in my mind.

Tracking the man revered as the Messiah was a journey that tested both time and patience.

I have the option to take a different path, yet he boldly claims to be the way, the truth, and the life.

I could ignore the Gospel.

I could be a good man on my own, right?

What's the point of being good?

On the flip side, what's the point of being evil?

Is it power?

Is it domination?

Is it to be known?

Am I thinking too much?

Should I be asleep, following the way of everyone else who is sleeping?

I long for the answers, I long for suffering to end, and I long for a better world.

And yet, despite all my questions, despite the ache that blooms in the quiet hours, I find myself still standing.

Still breathing.

Still searching for a love that does not end in disappointment.

Still longing for a world where the wounds are not wasted but woven into something sacred.

Maybe the point was never to find all the answers.

Maybe the point was to keep walking toward the light, even when every shadow mocks you.

Maybe suffering is not a punishment but a preparation.

Maybe every scar on my body and mind is a map leading me home.

I wonder, can redemption be more beautiful because of how deep the cracks run?

Can a heart shattered a thousand times become the vessel that carries living water?

I look up.

I listen to the silence between the stars.

I hear a whisper not of this world:

"Hold fast. You were not meant to sleep through life. You were meant to awaken the sleeping."

So I walk.

Not because the path is clear.

Not because I am fearless.

But because deep inside, the Voice still calls:

"Follow Me."

And if I fall again,

I will rise again.

I will rise with the wisdom of every broken bone, every regret, every moment I thought I was alone but was cradled by unseen hands.

I am not here to be perfect.

I am here to be true.

True to the ache that taught me how to feel.

True to the silence that taught me how to listen.

True to the storms that stripped me of everything that was never real.

There is a furnace in me now.

A fire not born of rage but of resolve.

A fire that says:

"Your wounds will not define you, but by how you walked with them."

I am learning that healing is not forgetting.

Healing is carrying the memory differently, wearing it like a medal from battles that tried to end me but failed.

I have seen too much darkness to pretend it isn't there.

But I have also seen too much light ever to give it up.

So, I become the bridge.

The narrow path between despair and hope.

The whisper between sorrow and resurrection.

Maybe that's what it means to follow Him, not to escape the world, but to enter it fully, broken and shining, carrying a lamp lit by the breath of God Himself.

And if I am still misunderstood, if I am still cast aside, if the world calls me mad for believing in unseen things, so be it.

I was never called to fit.

I was called to stand.

I am the cry in the wilderness.

I am the reminder that even here, even now, redemption is real.

Even for the lost.

Even for the wounded.

Even for me.

So I lift my head to the sky, not in arrogance, but in quiet defiance against despair.

I refuse to let the darkness write my story.

I refuse to let suffering have the final word.

I was born for more than survival.

I was born to blaze a trail where none existed, to walk the unseen road,

to carry a light stitched from every prayer I once thought was unanswered.

And if I have been broken, then let my brokenness be holy.

Let it be the soil where compassion grows, the altar where mercy meets man.

I offer my life—not a perfect offering, but a real one.

I offer my pain, my triumphs, my doubts, my hopes.

I offer it all, the way a river offers itself to the sea.

If there is any meaning to be made from this strange, wild existence, then let me be a vessel of it.

Let me be a beacon, not because I am unshakable but because I have been shaken and still chose to shine.

The road ahead is uncertain.

The fog is still thick.

There are still many questions.

But I go forward with a battered heart, a fierce hope, and the quiet certainty that somehow, against all odds,

I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

I walk not alone but hand in hand with the One who whispered me into being.

Let the winds rise.

Let the earth tremble.

Let the night fall heavy.

I will stand.

I will burn.

I will become everything I was created to be.

Amen.