With faith — despite everything —,...
Dear Humanity,
I never knew how to write letters. Not like you do. My language was always the whisper in the wind, the tremble of the heart, the quiver in the dying man’s voice, or the laughter shared between two who embrace without fear. But today, the centuries dictate to me. Today, I write with the fingers of all the children who died of hunger and never understood why. With the black ink of every mother still sleeping among ruins, waiting for a son to return from a war she never asked for. Today, I borrow the breath of those who kept silent, and of those who screamed and were never heard.
I gave you free will, not to wash my hands of your fate, but because freedom was the only way for the love between you to be genuine. What is born of imposition is obedience, not compassion. But what did you do with that gift? You turned it into a trench. You chose selfishness and called it progress. You learned to protect your own offspring, yes, but forgot to protect the children of others. As if your species were a sum of islands, not a single continent beating in unison.
Have you ever observed the mycelium, that invisible network beneath the earth that connects trees in an ancient pact of survival and aid? If one pine tree falls ill, another sends it nutrients. If a willow is thirsty, the entire forest moves to bring it water. They do not act out of altruism — they do it because they know that if one falls, all tremble. There is no selfishness in the forest. Only communal intelligence.
You, on the other hand, invented borders, exclusive religions, pocket-sized gods to justify cruelty. You let your neighbor die because he didn’t bear your name. You didn’t share your bread for fear of running out of crumbs. Where did you lose the memory of what truly matters?
The truth is, my children, that protection does exist among your kind. I’ve seen it. In those who leap into rivers to save strangers. In those who heal without asking for ideology. In grandmothers raising someone else’s grandchildren, and in children sharing their only cookie. But they are few. And they are tired. They need more. They need you. They need you to stop believing humanity is just a sum of survivors and begin to understand it as a web.
Because protection is not an isolated act. It is a system. It is the new mycelium. It is the invisible thread of solidarity that you can still weave — if you choose to. Not to save the world — I don’t want martyrs — but to dignify life.
I know it hurts to witness atrocities. Believe me, it hurts me more. I gave you the capacity to prevent every single one, not the guarantee that you would. The question was never “Why does God allow it?” but rather “Why does man carry it out — or tolerate it?”
You can still change. There is still time for the fire inside you to be more than rage or destruction. It can be light. You can still be siblings. Not through words or empty promises, but through acts: bread shared, embraces offered with no conditions, shelter given without asking for nationality.
This letter is not a judgment. It is a prayer. Not from me to you, but from you to yourselves. A plea written in the veins of every living being that has ever waited for a little tenderness — and never received it.
Return to yourselves. Return to the forest. To the mycelium. To the web. Remember: saving one is saving us all.
With faith — despite everything —,
God
Dictated to Miguel C. Manjarrez.
Note: This is not a prayer. It is fiction. A letter God never wrote — but perhaps one we needed to read.