No Recoil in the Hands of Divine

The day is done, and the armor you wore for twelve hours is finally heavy enough to drop. But now comes the terror of standing naked before the one who offers to help.

You want the healing, but you dread the exposure. You brace for the flinch, the judgment, the turning away.

Yet the light does not look at your brokenness with shock. It kneels.

It reaches for the basin. It washes the dust from feet that have walked through fire, and it does not cover you to hide you—it touches you to hold you.

There is no recoil in the hands of the divine. Only a quiet, steady presence that says: I see you, and I am not afraid.

The fear whispers that you must be whole to be loved. The truth is that you are loved so you can finally be whole.