carrying on the echo

while being instruments of light

First Day of Spring

There’s a moment that keeps replaying in my mind. My cousin, barely six years old, stood on the edge of the garden, staring at the birds flitting between the branches. He was holding a small toy—a plastic figure of a superhero—and in his other hand, a stick. I watched him for a while, wondering what his little mind was concocting. Suddenly, he turned to me and asked, “Why do some people hurt others?” It was a question I wasn’t prepared for—the kind of question that seems far too heavy for a child’s lips, and yet, there it was. I didn’t answer right away. How do you explain cruelty to someone who still believes in the magic of cartoons and the safety of family?

I told him something simple—something about people being confused or scared, about the world sometimes being too big for us to understand. He didn’t seem convinced. I wasn’t either. Later that night, as I sat by myself, the question continued to echo. I think we’ve all asked it at some point: Why cruelty? Why pain? Why does God allow it? And that’s when it struck me—what if God’s presence isn’t in the prevention of pain, but in our response to it? I remember a story my grandmother used to tell. She spoke of God not as a distant figure in the sky, but as something that breathes through us—as the hands and hearts that reach out when someone is in need. She would say, “We are the instruments of His grace, the means by which God reveals Himself to the world.”

I think of this often now. I look at my cousin and wonder if, in his innocence, he is closer to understanding this than I am. When he asked me why people hurt others, perhaps he was really asking something deeper: How do we heal the hurt? How do we step in where cruelty leaves its mark? I’ve come to believe that God doesn’t always intervene directly. Maybe God’s intervention is subtler, weaving through the hands of a stranger offering help or the simple act of sitting with someone in their pain.

This thought comforts me, and it challenges me too. It suggests that when we witness cruelty or suffering, we have a responsibility. We are part of the answer. When I see a child cry, a friend lost in grief, or even someone struggling in silence, I wonder if it’s a moment where I’m called to be that instrument—no matter how small or insignificant my role may seem. Sometimes, I think of my cousin’s question as a reflection of something larger—a longing for reassurance that goodness exists even in the face of darkness. In his small world, filled with toy superheroes and make-believe battles, he’s beginning to see the lines between right and wrong, pain and healing. And I realize that in some ways, his question is God’s way of reminding me to be vigilant, to be present, and to be kind.

My favorite bookstore is opening a new location next Thursday! The owner asked for suggestions on colors that radiate peace and light, and it turned out even more beautiful than I imagined! 🤍💙

It’s so easy to look for grand gestures, to expect miracles that defy reality. But what if the miracle is quieter than that? What if it’s the unseen moment when we choose to respond with compassion, even when it’s inconvenient? What if the instruments of God aren’t angels with wings but ordinary people like you and me? That night, as I put my cousin to bed, he asked me one more question. His voice was softer, his eyes already half-closed. “Do you think God helps people?” I smiled and whispered, “Yes, I do. I think He helps us by showing us how to help each other.” He nodded, satisfied with the answer. I sat there a little longer, watching him fall asleep, feeling the weight of that truth sink in.

God’s presence, I’ve come to realize, isn’t something distant or abstract. It’s in the spaces between us, in the hands we hold, the tears we wipe, and the kindness we extend. We are His instruments, and every act of love is a small miracle in itself. Maybe my cousin will grow up and forget that conversation, or maybe it will linger in his heart. Either way, I hope he continues to ask those difficult questions. Because it’s in asking that we remember to look for God’s light in one another, and it’s in answering that we become the instruments of His grace.

Perhaps I was reminded of this today because I recently had a deeply meaningful conversation with my dad—he’s one of the wisest souls I know. We were talking about something very close to my heart, something that feels like it’s slipped out of my hands, leaving me struggling with the timing I have right now. He paused his work on our papaya plantation, looked at me with a calm, almost timeless gaze, and said softly, “My dear, it’s never too late to do the right thing. Sometimes, it’s just about doing the same thing in a different way.” I walked off for a moment, gazing at the land, my mind heavy with questions. I asked, “But how do I know what the right thing is? People’s perspectives are so different.”

He came over, picked a papaya, and handed it to me, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Then, with quiet confidence, he replied, “Always choose the path that, despite your current and perhaps conflicting emotions, will bring you peace when you look back ten years from now.” And just like that, he returned to his work, leaving me standing there, filled with the quiet weight of his wisdom. God bless him. It felt as though he’d just handed me an answer I didn’t even know I needed.

xo,

T.