Your Hands Are Not Weapons But Healing

The day is ending, and your hands are still hovering—afraid to land. You pull back when someone leans in, convinced your touch will bruise them, that your own brokenness is too rough for their skin.

But the light does not recoil from the broken. It kneels.

It washes the dirt from feet that have walked through the worst roads, and it does not flinch at the grime. Your hands are not weapons.

They are the very place where the light enters the world to heal what it touches. You do not need to be flawless to offer comfort; you only need to be present.

The fear says you will break them. The truth says your touch is the only thing that can hold them together.