The Voice in Your Head Isn’t Alone

You and I are walking through a garden. In this garden, every possibility exists. We are not clothed in nervousness, excitement, or the need to protect. We are simply present, picking up vessels of this land, marveling at their uniqueness, their color, their ingenuity. Everything here is a treasure.

But then, if I begin to make mine better than yours, something shifts. You might start to see me as self-righteous, proud, even hateful. You claim it, project it onto me, and suddenly, you’re seeking rest. Rest from the confusion, the misunderstanding, the need to recover your own peace, your own dignity.

If I take offense, I’ve done the same thing. I’ve taken on your words, held them close, and wrapped myself in defense, anger, hostility. And in that exchange—what we thought was a shared moment—has now become a tug-of-war of energy. We’ve lost the meaning in the words because we’ve let the weight of yesterday’s pain taint today’s beauty.

What started as a beautiful day, in a beautiful land, is now disrupted because we don’t humble ourselves. We’re covered, wrapped in the old—clinging to the past, screaming for peace from a God that exists only when we decide to rest in the now. Here, in this garden, in this field of dreams, in the place where visionaries, children, and the imaginative roam, peace is already blooming. But we won’t see it if we’re too busy fighting over the garden’s soil.