He Met Her in the Mess

The day is ending, and the armor you wore for twelve hours feels fused to your skin. You are holding your breath against a basic, human need because the thought of being seen unable to care for yourself feels like a death sentence.

You would rather hurt than be witnessed in your fragility. But listen — the light does not flinch at the body.

It does not look away when you are small. There was a woman who had bled for twelve years, unclean and trembling, who believed that if she could just touch the edge of a garment, she would be whole.

She reached out from the crowd, terrified of being seen, and the power went out of him not because she was perfect, but because she was desperate. He stopped the whole procession to call her 'Daughter.' He did not ask her to clean herself up first.

He met her in the mess. The light is not afraid of your inability to wipe yourself.

It is not disgusted by your dependence. It is closer than your next breath, waiting for you to stop holding on so you can finally exhale.