They don’t wear crowns,
but they carry light,
in casseroles left at doorsteps,
in lullabies hummed to the grieving,
in the way they say your name like it’s sacred.

They don’t preach,
but they listen
until your story
feels less like a burden
and more like a bridge.

They don’t walk on water,
but they wade through sorrow
with boots soaked in compassion,
clearing culverts,
planting seeds,
writing poems
that make space for the ache.

They are the ones
who carry the spirit
not in thunder,
but in touch,
a hand on a shoulder,
a whisper that says:
You are worthy.
You are whole.
You are held.

They are the ones
who answer “Why me?”
with a smile that says,
Because love needed a body,
and you said yes.