A Journey Inward

Long ago, in a world not unlike our own, though cracked with ancient chaos, the people lived by a simple rule: take or be taken from. If you hungered, you didn’t bake bread—you stole it. If someone had what you wanted, you clubbed them, took it, and called it survival. And in that jagged, blood-soaked soil, a seed of something different was planted.

That seed’s name was Abel.

He wasn’t strong like his brother Cain. He wasn’t cunning, nor did he carry the swagger of the hunters or the ruthlessness of the war born. Abel simply... gave. Not to win favor. Not to seem good. But because something inside whispered, this is the way.

God saw that whisper and smiled.

But Cain—Cain only heard silence. When he gave, it was out of obligation. When he sacrificed, he expected reward. And when none came, he stared at Abel’s joy and saw mockery. Why him? Why not me? The green fire of jealousy grew inside him until it roared like a forge. And then, with hands meant for harvesting, Cain took his brother’s life. And the ground drank deeply of innocence.

We tell this story often, but rarely do we sit in its marrow. Why didn’t Abel see it coming? Why didn’t he run, or fight back, or at least ask if something was wrong?

Because Abel wasn’t looking out there. He was listening in here.

The world has changed since then—at least on the surface. We have grocery stores now instead of raiding parties. Most don’t club the neighbor anymore. But the Cain inside us? Oh, he’s still alive and well. He just swapped clubs for lawsuits, envy for Instagram, and war cries for passive-aggressive tweets. We’ve wrapped our ancient instincts in modern packaging and called it progress.

And yet… there are whispers again.

Some say the shift has begun. A paradigm shift—from power to peace, from ego to essence. Not all have noticed it, but those who do, feel it. They no longer seek favor by climbing over others, but by descending inward. The path isn't lit with torches or marked with signs—it’s sensed, like the presence of angels in the quiet.

It is not the government’s job to walk this path for us. Nor your pastor’s. Nor your parent’s. Wisdom—real wisdom—isn’t inherited. It’s discovered. It is Solomon’s quiet prayer in the night, asking not for power, but understanding.

And so, I walked.

I followed the whispers, the tugs, the invisible fingers pointing me inward. There were no road signs. No GPS. Just moments—small, sacred, terrifying moments where I had to choose: will I react like Cain… or respond like Abel?

And somehow, I did the impossible. I found something. A treasure, not of gold or accolades, but of peace. Deep, silent, shining peace.

Would I give a map? Maybe. But it wouldn’t help. Not really. Because this isn’t a trail you can follow by footsteps. It’s a trail of the soul, and every soul’s terrain is different.

So instead, I leave this behind:

Heal first. Then seek. Then find. Then guide.

But if you’re still aching, still angry, still looking for someone to blame—rest a while. Sit with the whisper. Don’t rush.

Because God? God is not “out there,” fuming and waiting. God is in the quiet, right behind your ribs, just waiting to be known.

This, I’ve learned:

The path of Cain is easy. But the path of Abel—though unmarked—is where the real treasure lies.

And it always begins… within.