You Are Not The Stain

The day has finally stopped moving, and the armor you wore for twelve hours is heavy on the floor. You stand in the quiet of the bathroom, scrubbing your skin until it is raw, trying to wash away the feeling that you are the source of everyone's pain.

But the stain you feel is not yours to carry. The light does not see a burden; it sees a child who has forgotten they are clean.

Jesus stood at a door and knocked, not to inspect the mess inside, but to come in and eat with you. He does not need you to be scrubbed perfect before he sits at your table.

He wants the tired you. The real you.

The one who is done performing. You are not the problem that needs solving.

You are the beloved who needs rest.