When Your Tears Have Dried Up

The afternoon stretches out, long and dry, and you feel a quiet panic rising because the tears simply will not come. You have tried to access the grief, the release, the softening, but your eyes are like dust and your heart feels sealed behind glass.

It is a specific kind of exhaustion to want to weep and find only silence where the water should be. But listen — the light does not require your tears to know your pain.

There was a man born blind, and when the disciples asked whose sin had caused it, the light refused the blame and instead spat on the ground to make mud. It touched the dry places.

It entered the closed-off senses and sighed before speaking the word that opened him. Your dryness is not a verdict against you; it is just the condition of the soil right now.

The light is not waiting for you to produce water; it is willing to become the water for you. Even if you cannot cry, you are seen in the middle of this drought.

The drying up is not the end of your story; it is just the moment before the river begins to flow again.