Your Shaking Is The Canvas

The afternoon light is harsh, exposing the tremor in your hands when you tried to lift the cup. You missed your mouth, and the spill became a mirror for the shame you carry—the feeling that you are too broken to perform the simplest act of care.

But the light does not turn away from the mess. There was a man born blind, and the disciples asked whose sin had caused it, assuming the darkness was a punishment.

The light corrected them: this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him. Your shaking is not a verdict.

It is the canvas. What you tried to hide, what you wiped away in hurry and humiliation, is the very place where the light intends to shine.

You do not have to steady your own hands to be held.