You Do Not Have to Earn Water

The afternoon sun is high, and the house is loud with the noise of people who think you are fine. You stand in the doorway of the kitchen, thirsty, rehearsing the sentence that will get you a glass of water.

You practice the tone. You trim the words.

You make sure you do not sound needy, or heavy, or like a burden. It feels like a small death, this silence you keep to stay out of the way.

But the light does not require you to be quiet to be loved. Jesus looked at a man who had waited thirty-eight years beside a pool, paralyzed by his own hesitation, and asked him the one question that breaks the spell: 'Do you want to get well?' He did not wait for the man to apologize for taking up space.

He did not wait for a perfect request. He simply commanded the paralysis to end.

'Get up,' he said. 'Pick up your mat and walk.' The light is not afraid of your thirst.

It is not annoyed by your presence. You do not have to earn the right to drink.

The water is already there, and the hand that offers it is already reaching. Put down the script you wrote in your head.

Open your mouth. Ask.