The crack in the dam was barely visible. Just a thought. Just a glance. Just a “What if I…?” But that’s how it starts.
The addict doesn’t kick the door down. He taps on the window. He whispers a maybe. He smiles like an old friend.
I felt the crack today. And I patched it. Prayer. Pause. Program. Didn’t wait until it burst. Didn’t romanticize the flood.
Still… Still standing. Still sealed. Still choosing abstinence over appetite. Still believing cracks don’t have to become canyons.