10/10/2025
Sometimes I feel like John the Savage
Sometimes I feel like John the Savage, mourning a world so ravaged it forgets how to hope.
The earth is tired, its people trading holiness for hunger, their souls for the fleeting thrill of the flesh. They call it freedom. They call it love. But it’s only decay disguised as light.
We were called to be better, to hold the hand of God, yet I watch them let go, one by one, to join the fiery dance with the devil.
And John—his feet become the compass, turning slowly in death’s quiet wind, searching for Heaven and finding only nothingness. He wants to believe in God, to feel the warmth of hope, but he’s met with silence and sin. I see him, and I see myself.
I wrestle between faith and despair, between surrender and rebellion. One hand reaches for Heaven, the other is pulled by the depths of despair.
Is there anyone left who feels the ache of right and wrong? Who longs for love that is holy, honest, and unafraid to call out the darkness?
I don’t want the kind of love that flatters the senses and starves the soul. Love is patient. Love endures. Love waits because it is sacred.
The soul is a covenant, a light meant to meet another light. But how can two become one when one has burned itself to ash?
So I whisper to this brave new world: I’ve never known another more like me than John the Savage.
His feet turned in search of Heaven, and I pray mine still might find it.
