The Light Loves Who You Are

The afternoon sun is high, and you are still moving, still fixing, still holding up the roof for everyone else. You believe that if your hands ever stop working, the love will stop flowing.

You are terrified that beneath all this doing, there is nothing left to be loved. But listen — the light does not love you for what you carry.

It loves you for who you are when you put it down. There was a woman who had been bleeding for twelve years, spent everything on doctors, and grew worse.

She did not fix herself. She did not earn a healing.

She simply reached out from the crowd and touched the edge of a cloak. The light stopped.

It turned around in the middle of the pressing mass and asked: who touched me? It did not want her work.

It wanted her presence. You think you are the pillar holding everything up.

But the light sees the exhaustion behind your eyes. It knows you are not a machine.

If you stopped fixing today, the world would not reject you. It would finally meet the real you — the one the light has been waiting to embrace all along.

The love was never under the burden; it was under the person carrying it.