ayoamadu

I knew of a man who walked with empty hands, yet every step sounded heavy.
He carried conversations
that ended years ago,
arguments he finally won
in rooms that no longer existed.

I knew of a man who packed his childhood into adulthood
and called it wisdom, never realizing he was dragging fear into places it had never been invited.
He carried unanswered prayers like unpaid debts—
each “no” from God quietly rewriting his theology, until faith became cautious and hope learned to whisper.

I knew of a man who mistook emotional distance for spiritual maturity, built walls, baptized them as boundaries,
and wondered why love could not find him.
He carried shame so long it started introducing itself as his name.
Projected it onto God, imagining heaven disappointed, because disappointment was the only language he spoke to himself.

I knew of a man who never met people as they were,
only as his wounds allowed.
Kindness felt suspicious.
Confidence felt threatening.
Mercy felt like a mistake
reserved for better men.
He carried Scripture without surrender, truth without tenderness, discipline without rest.
Quoted freedom while living overweight with control.

I knew of a man who prayed,
“Lord, make me stronger,”
when heaven was whispering,
“Lay it down.”
Because the burden was never the calling.
The weight was never the proof of faith.

What he refused to release
slowly began to lead him.
Then one day, he grew tired,
not of walking, but of carrying things he was never meant to survive with.
So he laid down the fear that said God was distant…
The shame that said love was conditional…
The past that demanded
to keep narrating his future…
And for the first time,
he felt light—not because the road changed, but because grace finally carried what he could not.

I knew of a man
who discovered the gospel was never “carry better,”
but “come to Me.”
And in laying it down,
he realized, it was never his strength that held him together.
It was mercy that had been carrying him all along.