Adena M'lynn's Voice

For the Families Who Face the Holidays with Empty Arms  (In remembrance of those lost in the Hill Country flood. God be near.) This is for the families whose holidays will look different this year—for the stockings that will stay folded, the chairs that won’t be filled, the laughter that once lived where silence now stands guard. This is for every mother who still listens for small footsteps in her dreams, for fathers who trace names on fogged windows of memory, for brothers and sisters who carry two hearts inside one chest. And this—this is for  Adeline , who stands now as the name for every child lost too soon. “Adeline” written by Adena M’lynn  She was small enough to still believe that goodness always wins, that summer meant campfires, and songs, and sun-warmed freckles on her skin. A folded pamphlet in her hand— Hill Country Christian Camp — her golden ticket to belonging. She saved her half— earned with soap, dust, and babysitting money— a jar full of hope clinking ...

When “hope” cries… When “dreams” sleep… When “breathing” gasps… That’s when the silence becomes louder than thunder, when the heart carries bricks instead of blood, when faith feels like a rumor whispered in a language I used to know. Hope—she bends at the knees, her voice trembling like a child asking if love is real this time. Her tears don’t fall to the ground— they suspend in the air, reminding us that even the strongest light can flicker. Dreams—once wild stallions running through midnight fields, are now curled in corners, restless, tossing in sleep that feels like chains. They whisper in half-finished sentences, “Don’t forget us… don’t bury us alive beneath calendars and scars.” Breath—oh breath— the most ancient prayer, now struggles through lungs like a beggar at a locked door. It gasps, it clutches at the edges of existence, and in that desperate rhythm, I hear the truth, to be alive is to wrestle between suffocation and song. So when hope cries, I will hold her. When dreams ...

by Adena M’lynn When I become the sunrise, I’ll paint your windows gold so even the darkest night can’t convince you it’s forever. When I become laughter, I’ll hide in your pockets and tumble out at the exact moment you think you’ve forgotten joy. When I become a tree, I’ll grow wild branches that bend just enough to let you climb higher than you ever thought you could. When I become rain, I’ll wash the dust from your shoulders, turn your sidewalks into rivers, and teach you to dance without music. When I become tomorrow, I’ll arrive with open hands, a calendar not yet written on, a promise that anything— everything— is still possible. And when I become hope, I won’t knock. I’ll move in, rearrange the furniture, hang your walls with light, and remind you— you were always meant for more than survival.