Where The Bodies Are Buried

 Everyone loves a beautifully weaved

redemption story—
the kind wrapped in applause,
stitched together with survival,
polished enough to make pain look poetic.

But this is not a story.
This is real life.
My life.

There’s a narrative we rehearse so often
it becomes a ritual—
a sedative disguised as safety.

A false womb.
A padded prison.
A dim-lit shelter
where we convince ourselves
that hidden means healed.

So we stay covered.

Covered from truth.
Covered from exposure.
Covered from the God 

who keeps calling us out of hiding.

And we cling to repetition
because repetition feels holy
when fear is preaching.

We tell ourselves the outside world
is only destruction,
only danger,
only teeth waiting to consume us—

yet never question
whether the real death
has been happening within.

Because we reach for weapons
before we understand the war.

We fight shadows
without discerning spirits.

Swinging at flesh
while darkness feeds from our blindness.

Truth is—
everyone believes in something.

But belief without surrender
becomes idolatry with secular branding.

And instead of diving into truth,
we drown in division.

We glorify offense.
Romanticize rebellion.
Mistake avoidance for freedom.

We backtrack at boundaries,
resent accountability,
and call conviction “judgment”
because transformation costs too much.

Then come the currents.

And currents always speak.

Quiet at first.
Subtle.
Seductive.

Until suddenly
they pull at your ankles
while you’re still calling it peace.

They drag you under,
convince you you’re drowning,
then whisper:

“Save yourself.”

But self cannot resurrect self.

That is what happens
when purpose is abandoned
before it is understood.

You wake up empty.

No reflection.
No identity.
No soul staring back—
just a body
performing existence.

Matter occupying space
while heaven mourns potential.

And beneath every riptide,
beneath every addiction,
every counterfeit intimacy,
every masked wound—

there is always a deeper story buried alive.

Have you ever looked evil
directly in its eyes?

Not metaphorically.
Literally.

Touched it.
Breathed it in.
Slept beside it.
Fed it your loneliness
until it learned your name?

Have you ever mistaken survival for love?
Attachment for salvation?
Desire for destiny?

Because that’s what happens
when naivety walks into a slaughterhouse
holding a box cutter
thinking innocence alone can survive wolves.

You don’t realize
you’ve become prey
until your hands are stained
with the very darkness
you swore you would never touch.

Knee-deep in blood,
guts,
trauma,
unclean spirits—

watching horror unfold in real time
while calling it connection.

Counterfeit love
does not always arrive looking evil.

Sometimes it arrives attractive.
Familiar.
Comforting.

Sometimes evil kisses softly
before it devours completely.

And desperation—
desperation is a war cry.

Predators hear it like worship.

They rise from the swamp of sin
wearing the language of healing
while carrying the appetite of destruction.

So let this be the last time
you lead people
to graves you never healed from.

The last time
you glorify wounds
without introducing the One
who can resurrect what died there.

Stop showing people
where the bodies are buried.

Start introducing them
to the Redeemer.

Stop making covenant with chaos.
Stop sleeping with the enemy.

And finally—
rest.

Rest with the Great I Am.

The One who enters tombs
without becoming death.

The One who calls dry bones by name.
The One who was there
before the wound,
within the fire,
and beyond the grave.

Alpha.
Omega.
Beginning.
End.

The Author
of every true redemption.