On Life and Words

  There is a language that doesn’t need words— The language of being known, recognized, and remembered. In the world of the village, people were fluent in this language. Names mattered. Stories were passed down like treasures. If you disappeared, someone would notice. If you wept, arms would open. Today, many of us long for that kind of belonging—a place where we don’t have to explain ourselves to be understood, where our quirks are familiar rather than odd, where we are celebrated for simply showing up. It’s easy to lose this language in the busyness of modern life. But it isn’t gone; it’s waiting to be spoken again. Maybe it starts with a quiet question: Who is missing from my table? Who needs to be seen? How can I offer the gentle presence I crave? We can reclaim the lost language of belonging, one act of noticing at a time.

  Before language wrapped itself around thought, before stars were mapped and stories recorded, a divine whisper hovered in the stillness of existence: You were made for communion. Not productivity. Not prestige. Not even progress. But presence—shared, sacred, and simple. In the beginning, there was God. Not alone, but communal. Father, Son, and Spirit—eternally entwined in the mystery of mutual delight. And from that holy oneness, we were fashioned—not as isolated beings, but as echoes of this divine togetherness. The fingerprints of the Trinity are pressed into our souls, and our hearts are restless until they find that reflection mirrored in another’s eyes. Eden was not a solo stage, but a sanctuary of relationships: God walking with humankind in the cool of the day, Adam reaching toward Eve, the earth offering itself as a friend to the feet. Every element of paradise pulsed with connection. Even in perfection, solitude was “not good.” This tells us something vital: we were made...