Shared

Joy was never meant to be held alone,

cupped in quiet hands, hidden away.

It longs to be seen, to be spoken,

to ripple through the room like laughter

spilling from lips that tremble with wonder.

A sunrise means more when another stands beside you,

gasping at the same golden hush of morning.

A victory swells when another voice shouts,

“I see it too.”

Joy grows in the sharing,

doubling, tripling, overflowing,

until it is too vast to contain,

until it carries us all.

But sorrow—sorrow is a heavy thing.

It settles into bones, into silence,

into the spaces where light once lived.

It tells its lies: You are alone. No one can bear this with you.

Yet a hand placed upon ours, a presence that does not flinch,

a voice that whispers, “I will not turn away,”—

these things crack the weight in half.

The grief remains, but it is not so sharp.

The ache lingers, but it does not consume.

Sorrow, when met with love,

loses its power to isolate.

We must not fear the shadows,

for we were made to walk each other home.

We must not turn from suffering,

for love was always meant to kneel low.

Shared joy is joy multiplied.

Shared sorrow is sorrow divided.

And when we choose to stay, to witness, to carry, we become what we were meant to be—

the hands and heart of Jesus himself.