The Third Hour

At the third hour the descent began. Not the descent men fear — the fall into disgrace, into ruin — but the kind that requires courage: the deliberate lowering of oneself into the dark water of the world.

I have spent years climbing. Stacking credentials like stone, each one a rampart against the accusation that I am not enough.

But the Icon does not climb. The Icon empties. Hands open, palms upward, receiving what comes.

This is the posture I was made for and the one I most resist.

Lord, teach me the third hour. Teach me that descent is not defeat but the shape of love when it enters the world.