Uprooted

There is a sound rising again.

Not just from platforms or pulpits,

But from the secret places.

From the ones who’ve been forgotten,

betrayed, misunderstood…

but never silenced.

It is the sound of a shofar,

blown not by ritual,

but by desperation turned to fire.

It echoes through mountains, valleys,

and prison cells.

And the wind answers.

Trees fall.

Powerlines crumble.

The very earth groans and shifts

as heaven responds to the call.

It’s not just weather.

It’s not just coincidence.

It’s the unraveling of everything false.

This is the season

where roots are exposed—

not pruned, but uprooted,

so that nothing unclean can masquerade as holy.

A remnant has risen.

Not perfect, but purified.

Not loud, but clear.

Not famous, but known in heaven.

And they are done compromising.

They are trading hatred for mercy,

bitterness for fire,

shame for the strength to cry out again.

Not for themselves alone—

but for the captives,

for the children,

for the stolen promises,

for the land groaning under injustice.

This is that sound.

The call that shakes the trees.

The cry that splits dimensions.

The voice in the wilderness that refuses to die.

B

ecause when the real ones rise,

the wind does too.