The Cry of The Trumpet

There is an old story about a traveler who set out on a long road toward Home. Not the house he grew up in.   Not the place where his mail was delivered.   But the deeper Home—the one every soul remembers even if it cannot describe it.   The place of rest, clarity, and belonging.   The place where the heart finally exhales. The traveler knew the way in theory.   But the road was long, and like most long roads, it tested him. Some days he walked with purpose.   Other days he dragged his feet.   And on the hardest days, he grew cranky, impatient, and angry—   not because he was a bad man,   but because he was tired. Tired of the dust.   Tired of the detours.   Tired of watching others take shortcuts that looked easier, even if they didn’t lead anywhere good. One afternoon, after a particularly frustrating stretch, he slumped beneath a tree and muttered,   “I ...