I Am Alive

This piece emerged from a deeply personal reflection on hope and survival. Yet, as I wrote, I realized how much it speaks to the shared human experience—of facing life’s torrents, feeling broken, and somehow finding the strength to rise again. It’s a reminder that, even in our darkest moments, we are never truly alone in our struggles.

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I am alive, though it defies my imagination. My last vivid memory suggests I should not have made it. The torrent of life and the sharp arrows of the wicked rained down on me, pushing me to the brink of death. They pierced me from all sides, and hope fled my thoughts as quickly as air escapes a balloon punctured by a nail. The end seemed inevitable, and my inner vision dimmed. I had nothing to hold onto as my body turned against me, betraying the strength that once held it together.

In a solemn, inner whisper, I cried out, much like God cries through our pain. The agony was so overwhelming that my lips could not form the words my vocal cords longed to release. Yet, in the depths of my despair, I became the evangelist of my own revival. The words I spoke were silent to the world but thunderous within me.

“Why am I a mere copy of myself?” asked the other version of me, lying broken on the ground. I looked around, seeking help from those nearby, signaling with my hands and voice. But to my dismay, the help of man proved as intangible as grasping at air. My breath faltered, and the broken version of me looked up with a pious gaze, saying, “Man has no value unless the breath of the Maker fills him.”

I saw the preacher with his collar and the Book he carried. His words were profound, filled with wisdom that could make a fool weep. Yet, all of it—the preacher, the Book, the wisdom—mattered only because I am alive.

To be alive is to defy the odds, to find light in the shadows, and to carry the breath of the Maker within us. This is my story, but it is also ours.