Supernova

The Name We Speak

Supernova

I learned the names of my fractures
by tracing them like constellations.
Thin white rivers under skin,
quiet as bones praying.

Days like these, I can hear the hum—
the low animal of fear
pacing the rafters of my chest.
Every footfall says:

end. end. end.

But I’ve been told endings are doors
that don’t know they’re doors yet.

I remember the first collapse.
How gravity grew teeth.
How pride went brittle as a winter reed.
How my breath turned to glass in my mouth
and even the curtains forgot how to move.

Silence isn’t empty.

It is a room full of unsung names.
It is a chorus rehearsing in a locked throat.
It is the place where God keeps
His hand on your back until you lean.

Can’t you hear the heavens speak His name?

I said I wouldn’t break again.
I lied.
Sometimes the holiest thing about me
is the sound I make when I shatter—
a thousand bright syllables
learning to pronounce mercy.

There is a way to ache that feels like prayer.
No preface. No polish.
Just a body telling the truth.

I am tired, Lord.
I am tired of pretending the light is painless.
I am tired of carrying dead suns in my pockets
and calling it “keepsake.”

Make me honest enough to be held.

I have loved my darkness.
It let me be invisible.
It let me hide the tremor in my jaw.
But love that hides is not love;
it is a museum of locked frames,
a field where the scarecrows
cheer for crows.

So I stepped outside.
The night had a pulse.
Somewhere a fox stitched
the dark together with its feet.
Somewhere the river
argued kindly with the stones.
Somewhere an old man
whispered scripture to the wind
so it wouldn’t feel alone.

Can’t you hear the heavens speak His name?

I said the name of Jesus
and it opened in my mouth
like a match.
Not a sermon.
Not a system.

A brightness with fingerprints.
A shepherd’s voice dragging my shadow forward
by the scruff of its doubt.

Listen:

every star that ever was
began in a hush nobody applauded.
Cold dust. Hidden heat.
A cradle made of pressure and patience.
Creation is a womb with a long memory.
It remembers what the dark tried to forget—
that light is not a visitor.
It is the landlord.

I learned this the hard way:
resurrection is not a magic trick.
It is a carpenter’s touch on a ruined beam.
It is calluses greeting splinters like old friends.
It is a voice outside your tomb
mispronouncing your fear into flowers.

“Come out,” He says,
and the grave clothes panic,
and you wobble into daylight
like a brand-new foal named After.

But before that—
before the bright parade—
there is the ignition.

It does not ask permission.
It eats the map.

It turns yesterday into fuel.
It teaches your ribs how to ring like bells.

Can’t you hear the heavens speak His name?

Supernova.
The saint’s sudden fire.
A mouthful of hallelujahs
with ash still in their teeth.
Light loud enough to make silence kneel.

I want to be that honest.
To burn without cruelty.

To be bright and stay kind.
To spill my small galaxies into cold hands
and call it hospitality.
To say: here, take some of this warmth.
I found it inside a wound God wouldn’t waste.

All my old names—
Failure, Almost, Not Yet…
they orbit me like wayward moons.
Some nights I still throw bread to them.
Some nights I let them starve.

When the storm comes (and it will),
I remember the pillar and the cloud—
how guidance can be heavy,
how glory can go dim on purpose
so our eyes won’t die looking.

I remember the wilderness that taught me grammar:
manna, mercy, morning.
I learned to spell trust
by eating what I could not store.

And when I am brave (which is rare),
I bless my scars aloud.
Each one a small Bethlehem
where something impossible arrived quietly
and laid down to be loved.

Can’t you hear the heavens speak His name?

I don’t know much about heaven,
but I have seen the way my child sleeps
when the thunder is near—
how he finds my heartbeat with his ear
and decides the storm is a story, not a threat.

Maybe faith is like that.
Knowing where to place your head
when the sky forgets its manners.

I will not pretend the night is harmless.
We both know which wolves
have eaten from my hand.

But I will also not pretend the night owns me.
I belong to a dawn with nails in His wrists.
He keeps a ledger of sparrows and sighs.
He counts my bones when I cannot.
He braids my breath to His like bread.

And when I finally burst—
not into rage, but into witness…

I want it to be useful.

Not fireworks.
Navigation.

A lighthouse disguised as a wound.
A flare sent up from the wreck
to warn the next ship:
these waters are loved,
but they are deep.

Call it confession, call it psalm,
call it the long thaw.

I am learning the discipline
of gentle brightness.

To be a hearth, not a wildfire.
To heat the room I am in.

To leave the soot on my fingers
so someone else knows they can touch the coal and live.

Can’t you hear the heavens speak His name?

If you are reading this in a midnight room,
I have saved a chair for you by the window.

We will watch the dark remember it was never the point.

We will let the first thin blade of morning cut our names free.

We will refuse to apologize for surviving.

And when the ache returns (it will),
set it on the table like bread.

Break it open.

See how the steam escapes
like a prayer that finally learned its mother tongue.

Listen—
do you hear the ribs ringing?

Do you feel the heat in your old cold?

This is not the end.

It is the brightness beginning.

Supernova.

Not the death of a star,
but the publishing of its heart.

An explosion of gospel in a reality
that was always meant for great things.

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