Today's Poem Inspired by Psalm 1:4-5
The threshing floor is wide and open,
exposed to sky and silence.
Nothing hides here.
Everything is lifted into light
and asked what it is made of.
There are things with weight—
grain that falls back to earth
with a quiet, faithful sound,
heavy with purpose,
shaped by time,
content to remain.
And there are things that look the same
until the moment of lifting.
Husks that learned the shape of fullness
without ever becoming full.
They rise easily, almost joyfully,
as if freedom were the same as flight,
as if being carried were the same as belonging.
The wind does not hate the chaff.
It does not rage or accuse.
It simply moves.
And what has no center,
no rootedness,
no inward gravity,
cannot stay.
The chaff scatters
into distances unnamed,
each piece convinced for a moment
it is going somewhere important,
until even direction is lost
and motion becomes forgetting.
So it is with lives built on echo,
on appetite,
on borrowed desire.
They shine briefly in the air,
catching light,
mistaking visibility for meaning,
momentum for life.
But when the day of weighing comes,
when truth is not whispered but spoken aloud,
there is no place to brace oneself
against what is real.
No stance can be taken
without substance beneath it.
To stand requires more than confidence.
It requires coherence.
It requires a self knit together
by something stronger than impulse,
something truer than approval.
The judgment is not thunder.
It is clarity.
A revealing of what was always the case.
Some things remain
because they were made to.
Others disappear
because they never learned how to stay.
And there is a gathering—
not loud, not triumphant—
a quiet assembly of those
whose lives learned weight
from wisdom,
whose days leaned toward what lasts,
who were shaped slowly
by faithfulness rather than force.
They do not stand because they are flawless.
They stand because they are grounded.
They belong because they can endure
the presence of truth
without coming apart.
The wind passes over them too.
It tests everything.
But they remain,
not clinging,
not grasping,
simply rooted enough
to be there when the dust settles.
And the floor is quiet again,
holding what remains,
while the wind carries away
what never learned
how to live with weight.
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