Loved Before You Are Clean

The day is done, and the armor you wore to survive it is finally coming off. But now comes the terror of being seen naked by the one who is helping you wash.

You want to hide the scars, the dirt, the parts of you that feel too broken to be touched. Yet the light does not stand above you issuing commands; it kneels.

It takes the basin and the towel. It reaches for the very feet you are trying to pull away.

The one washing you has already seen the depth of your need, and it did not make them flinch. They are not shocked by your filth; they are prepared for it.

To let them wash you is to admit you cannot clean yourself, and that admission feels like dying. But the hands touching your wounds are not judging them; they are healing them.

The exposure you fear is the exact place where the connection happens. You do not have to be clean before you are loved.

You are loved so that you can finally be clean.