Love Flows Through Your Cracks

The afternoon stretches out, a long middle where the weight of caring feels heavier than the love you have left to give. You try to pour from a cup that feels empty, and the world only asks for more.

There was a man once who had been blind since birth, and the people around him argued about whose fault it was—his sin, his parents' sin, the universe's mistake. But the light stopped the debate before it could begin.

Neither this man nor his parents sinned. The brokenness was not a verdict.

It was a canvas. The light looks at your exhaustion, at your frayed nerves and your dried-up well, and it does not see failure.

It sees the space where something true can finally be displayed. You do not have to manufacture love for a world that feels unlovable.

You only have to stop pretending you are the source of it. The love is already here, waiting to move through the cracks in your armor.