The Light Sees Your Wetness Holy

The afternoon hums with the noise of people who have already scrubbed their faces clean. You carry the salt from this morning—the dried tears, the pillow imprint, the quiet breaking that happened before dawn.

It feels like a secret stain you must hide before the world sees you. But the light does not require a clean face to recognize its own.

Jesus saw Nathanael under the fig tree before Philip even called him—he knew you before you wiped your eyes. There is light within a person of light, and it lights up the whole world even when that person is weary.

You do not need to scrub away the evidence of your pain to be held. The salt on your skin is just proof that you are human, not proof that you are unloved.

The mask can stay off for one more hour. The light sees the wetness and calls it holy.