The Light Reaches for Your Trembling Hand

The day is ending, and the house is quiet enough for the memory to return. Last Tuesday.

The coffee pot. The way your hand shook so violently you had to pretend you were reaching for a spoon just to hide the spill.

You told yourself it was just caffeine, just tiredness, but the fear tasted like copper in your mouth. The fear that the tremor was a signal.

That the break was finally showing. Tonight, in the gathering dark, the light does not ask you to explain the shake.

It does not demand you steady yourself before it comes near. The Savior saw a man with a withered hand standing in the synagogue, exposed and vulnerable, and he did not wait for the man to hide it.

He told him simply: stretch it out. And the man did.

The healing happened in the stretching, not in the hiding. Your trembling hand is not a disqualification from the light.

It is the very thing the light reaches for first. The spill on the floor does not mean you are broken beyond repair.

It means you are human, and the light is still pouring.