You Were Never Too Much For God

The afternoon stretches out, long and flat, demanding that you keep moving even when your legs feel heavy with old shame. You remember the moment clearly: a child's grief spilling over in a crowded room, and the sharp voice that commanded you to stop making a scene.

So you swallowed the tears. You learned to hold your breath until the shaking stopped, believing that your pain was too loud, too messy, too much for the world to hold.

But the light does not demand silence from the brokenhearted. It sits beside you now, in the middle of this ordinary Tuesday, and whispers that you were never too much.

There is a scene being made right now in the heart of God over every tear you were forced to hide. You do not have to perform composure for the light to love you.

The child who cried is still held, and the adult who remembers is finally safe to let the sound out.