The care home smells of polish and overcooked vegetables. Photographs line the walls— faces once fierce, now softened by forgetting. A woman says hello. Neither of us knows her name, but the God of the covenant does not forget— her name penned in the Book of Life. Later— the detention centre. Fluorescent light. Locked doors. Lives paused between borders. Someone asks how long this will last. No one knows. Names become numbers, processed into stats that serve political interes

I walk the path through the woods because I cannot stay still. Mud darkens the cuffs of my trousers, my hands are cold in my pockets, the ground yielding beneath each step. My eyes sting— tears arriving without warning, without a name. I stop. Try to pray. Nothing comes. No words. Only breath. In and out— cold air filling my lungs, fogging briefly before it disappears. And into the quiet I whisper the next line of the Creed: I believe in the Holy Spirit. The words feel thin t

Inde ventūrus est iūdicāre vivos et mortuos (From there he will come to judge the living and the dead) It is well past midnight. The house sleeps; I do not. The story I heard earlier still clings to me— a quiet cruelty carried out by cruel hands. I don’t repeat the details, but they sit heavy in the room, like a shadow that refuses to lift. I make tea I do not want, pace the kitchen floor, open the window to cold air— but nothing settles. The night feels bruised. I sit in the

Dawn does not rush. It comes softly, as if the world itself is afraid to breathe. I reach the next line: On the third day he rose again. And the silence bends toward light. The darkest day is not the final day. The tomb is not the end of the story, but its turning point. What we call dead, God calls seed. What we bury in despair, Love raises in mystery. He rose— not to erase death, but to unmake it. Not to deny the wounds, but to show that they can shine. The cross still stan