Same Storm, Different Shores

 You once said

we speak different languages—

as if my words were foreign,

as if my understanding

was something to be translated

instead of trusted.

But I have known pain

not from theory,

but from walking through fire

with bare feet

and no one watching.

You learned silence

from polished halls,

from lessons wrapped in robes

of spiritual expectation.

I learned it

from slammed doors,

courtrooms,

and wounds dressed as love.

But hurt

still echoes the same

whether it’s whispered

through glass

or screamed

in the middle of the street.

So when you pull away,

when you hand off pieces of your life

like they are too heavy to hold—

I don’t flinch.

Because I know that weight.

I’ve carried it, too.

Just shaped differently.

And yet,

despite the gap between us—

mine from the world,

yours from within it—

we met in the same sanctuary.

Not built by hands,

but by spirit.

Jehovah doesn’t bind

by sameness,

but by truth.

And even truth

takes time

to speak fluently.

I do understand you.

Maybe not in every word,

but in every pause.

In every time

you said nothing

and still told me

you were drowning.

We are not the same,

but we are not so different

that love can’t recognize itself

in both of us.

If this friendship has a pulse,

it’s because Jehovah

breathed it into being—

and He does not waste

what He builds.

So I’ll stay still.

Not pushing.

Not pleading.

Just here—

as a reflection

you don’t have to fear.

I may not speak your language,

but I know how to listen

with my life.