The Light Kneels Where You Tremble

The coffee cup is warm in your hand, but your shoulders are already up near your ears. Someone you love laughed across the table—a sudden, bright sound—and your body flinched before your mind could catch up.

You mistook joy for an ambush. Now the shame sets in, heavy and hot, because you feel broken for reacting to love like it was a threat.

You wear the mask of 'I'm fine' while your nervous system screams that the door is locked and the windows are barred. But listen—the light sees the flinch, and it does not turn away.

It knows why you learned to dodge the sun. Jesus sat with friends who had denied him, and he did not ask them to stop shaking before he broke the bread.

He just served. The gap between how you look and how you feel is not a place where the light cannot go.

It is exactly where it kneels. Your body is trying to protect you, not betray you.

And the light is patient enough to wait until your muscles remember that this laughter is safe. You do not have to force the smile.

You do not have to fix the reflex today. Just sit there, behind the mask, and let the light see the tremor underneath.

It is not afraid of your flinch. It is only waiting for you to realize that the war is over.