The Cost of Enough

We have learned
to call it tolerance
when we refuse
to choose

standing just near enough
to say we were present
close enough to the wound
to speak of it
without ever touching
the heat beneath

we have made a virtue
of distance

we say
I will not judge
and mean
I will not carry

I offer listening 

 not the weight of their sorrow

Their shame 

 I leave them to hold 

 my hands must stay free  

we say
I will love everyone
and mean
love no one 

 enough
 to risk myself

 

There are things
that cannot be preserved
by gentle agreement

truth does not remain
because it is acknowledged
it remains
because someone
refused to release it

We have become careful
with our words

smooth as river glass
weightless in the hand

we pass them
back and forth
polished
harmless

plastic words
offered freely
because they cost us nothing

But I have read
of a man who would not offer
what did not wound him

who understood
that anything given
without cost
was never truly given

Tolerance
asking nothing
keeping nothing

love
risking nothing
changing  nothing

truth
costing nothing
holding nothing

So we stand
with our measured responses
our reasonable restraint
our quiet approvals

 without any fire 

 to show belief remains 

and call it peace

while something vital
slips from our hands
uncontested

We are living 

 in the recompense 

 of half-belief 

We ask for everything 

 while offering nothing 

We have always known 

 you get what you pay for 

And we live 

 as if the cost were enough 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

Old Soul

They call me an old soul 

but what I carry 

is not age—

it is accumulation 

 

I hold that 

as an empath 

I have lived  

through the myriad lives 

I have encountered 

I have loved your loves 

I have lived your lives 

I have grieved your griefs

 

I do not throw things away.

I place them

in small boxes
lined with words

set on shelves

I visit when I choose—

mostly 

They are not gone—
just no longer
in my hands

Sometimes I open one
not to feel it again
but to remember
I survived 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

April 17, 2026

Plastic Words

There are words

that remember for us—

words like an eruption 

we could not stop, 

the ones we emptied

like pockets full of stones,

the ones that carried

what we could not bear.

And then there are the others.

The ones shaped

to look like truth,

smooth as river glass,

harmless in the hand.

Plastic words.

Weightless.

Bloodless.

Convenient.

I have used them.

Held them up like offerings

without ever touching

the heat beneath.

I have spoken

near the wound—

close enough to gesture,

far enough to stay clean.

I have written

from the perimeter,

commented

without committing,

crafted sentences

that sounded honest—

costing me nothing.

Because real words—

the ones with memory—

cut on their way out.

They drag the body with them.

They return us

to the quake,

to the wind,

to the moment

we first broke open.

Plastic words do none of this.

They do not tremble.

They do not ache.

They do not remember

because they were never there.

And I have hidden behind them,

let them stand in for me,

let them speak

in my stead—

a ventriloquist’s truth,

a safe approximation

of being known.

But every time I return

to the real words—

the costly ones—

I feel the edge again.

Not as deeply,

but sharp enough

to know the difference.

It is easier

to sound honest

than to be known.

Easier to craft

than to confess.

Easier to write

than to reveal.

But only one of these

remakes us.

Only one

remembers.

© Ron Simpson Jr.

The Life of the Warrior

Throughout their life 

battlefields change 

fronts move—

but the battle remains

They began in the struggle 

for their own soul

which they won 

through the sacrifice of another life 

There, the warrior learns 

the strategy of victory 

in this spiritual warfare

To win,

one must surrender

not to the enemy

but to the will 

of the Victor

And so the warrior lives 

with surrender as strength 

not a yielding of courage 

but the sharpening of it 

Learning that victory 

is not a single moment 

rather a lifetime of returning 

to the One who fought for them 

And when the final hour does come 

they will not fall in defeat 

they will simply lay down the weapons 

they no longer need 

They will step across the threshold 

into the hands 

that carried them 

all along 

For the warrior’s death 

is not the end of the battle—

It is the moment they discover 

the war was already won  

Yet, they will die

still in the struggle—

for the struggle itself 

was the joyous labor 

of their life 

The life 

of the warrior 

© Ron Simpson Jr.

The Threshold of Enough

(1st Kings 13, Luke 18)

Three times— 

the arrows piercing 

the ground expecting 

the prophet still waiting 

Three times—

as if it were enough 

felt complete to a king
who measured obedience
by motion.

The prophet burned—

the field 

still open 

Faith empties the quiver
or it never believed
the war would last.

The widow 

owned no arrows,
no prophecy,
only shoes worn thin
by the same road.

She learned the judge’s shadow,
the sound of his door,
the hour his patience cracked.

She did not ask how many times.
She asked until.

Three strikes is surrender dressed as effort.
The hundredth knock—
same hand,
same request—

is priesthood.

Enough is not a feeling.
Enough is an outcome.

This is not a symbolic act.
This is not a moment.

This is not
a three arrow solution.

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

The Army That Forget... And The Boy That Reminded Them

(David and Goliath)

They were a covenant people.

The chosen.

Children of an everlasting promise.

They were the army of God—

favored,

covered,

led by a God who went before them.

Yet on this day,

they cowered beneath the voice

of a heathen giant.

Israel forgot about the Red Sea 

an impassable obstacle 

They forgot about Jericho 

an insurmountable defense 

They forgot about manna 

an impossible provision 

All the battles behind them—

the victories,

the miracles,

the undeniable hand of God—

were buried beneath the fear

of one man.

“I defy the armies of Israel this day;

give me a man, that we may fight together.”

Let’s not diminish him—

Goliath was no illusion.

He was trained.

Tested.

A warrior shaped by battle.

His armor had weight.

His weapons had history.

His presence had power.

But still—

the armies of Israel forgot who they were.

Then came a boy.

Ruddy.

Anointed.

Sent on an errand—

bread and corn for his brothers.

He arrived at the place

where memory had failed.

He refused the armor.

Untried things had no place in his hands.

No sword.

No shield.

Only a sling—

and a confidence that did not come from himself.

He ran toward the valley.

Paused just long enough

to gather five smooth stones.

(Not out of doubt—

but preparation.

Goliath had four brothers.)

And then—

“Thou comest to me with a sword, 

and with a spear, and with a shield: 

but I come to thee 

in the name of the LORD of hosts, 

the God of the armies of Israel, 

whom thou hast defied.”

You know the rest.

A sling.

A stone.

A fallen giant.

An enemy in retreat.

And an army—

that suddenly remembered

who they were.

Never forget.

The battle is already decided.

You already have

everything you need

for victory.

It is in His Word.

Do not let your circumstances

rewrite your identity.

Do not let fear

erase your history with God.

We are a covenant people.

We are chosen.

We are carriers of an everlasting promise.

You are favored

Remember who you are 

and rise above. 

© Ron Simpson Jr.