French la Vie

There is a hush I feel inside lately. A silence that doesn’t come from peace, but from absence.
Something is missing.
Something soft.

Maybe it is love.
Maybe we’ve placed it on a shelf,
dusted it with words,
called it sentimental.
Old-fashioned.
Inconvenient.

Tomorrow is a kind of holy silence.
A day that sits between grief and hope,
where the world once waited for resurrection,
but didn’t know it yet.

And I wonder if we are still in that place.
Still waiting.
Still unsure.
But this time not for something divine —
but for something human.

Love.

When did we decide love could wait?
When did we stop believing it was urgent?

Are we trading soul for spectacle?
Choosing volume over presence,
distraction over devotion?

Is compassion now something we schedule,
like a meeting we can cancel
because something more important came up?

And what happens to a world
when children don’t know how to cry
for someone else’s pain?

The way sorrow has become a headline,
a graphic,
a thing we scroll past while sipping coffee.

This slow turning of the heart’s face away from the light —
I feel it.
I fear it.
The shifting of value
from kindness to cleverness,
from connection to conquest.

The rich get richer.
The poor become invisible.
Tenderness becomes a luxury.
And compassion seems to carry a price tag
most are unwilling to pay.

I want to be wrong.
I ache to be wrong.
But I wonder —
are we still choosing love?
Or are we moving through a bruised and blinking world,
still spinning,
but no longer feeling?

Holy Saturday…
a waiting space.
Maybe that’s where we are.
Still longing for love to rise again.