The Light Kneels in Your Garden

The day is ending, and the quiet is finally loud enough for you to hear the thing you have been running from all afternoon: the certainty that you are rotting inside. You feel like a fraud in your own skin, convinced that if anyone were to touch you gently, they would feel the decay beneath the surface.

They would pull their hand back in disgust. But then—someone does touch you.

A hand on your shoulder. A voice that says your name without flinching.

And you brace for the recoil that never comes. The light does not withdraw from what it perceives as broken.

It leans in closer. There was a woman who had been bleeding for twelve years, untouchable by law and by custom, convinced her condition made her poison to everyone she passed.

She reached out in the dark, trembling, expecting to be rebuked for contaminating the holy. Instead, the light stopped the entire crowd to turn and call her 'Daughter.' The touch did not reveal your rot.

It revealed your worth. The decay you feel is a lie told by the shadows gathering at your window.

The truth is that you are not a tomb to be avoided. You are a garden the light is willing to kneel in.

The darkness says you are finished. The light says you are just beginning to be known.