Light Meets You in the Suds

The day is moving, and you are moving with it, performing the ordinary tasks that keep the world turning. You are folding the laundry or washing the dish, and your hands are busy, but suddenly your chest collapses.

The grief you thought you handled last week arrives now, in the middle of the afternoon, without warning. It hits you while the water runs over your fingers, a delayed wave that knocks the breath out of you.

— The light does not scold you for falling apart in the middle of the routine. It does not ask why you are crying over a sock or a spoon.

It meets you right there, in the suds and the silence. There was a woman who bled for twelve years, hidden in a crowd, and she reached for the edge of a cloak while life rushed past her.

She did not need a private room or a perfect moment. She just reached.

The light stopped the whole crowd to turn to her. It stops for you, too, in the middle of your mundane Tuesday.

You are not losing your mind because the pain returned while you were working. You are remembering that the light lives inside the ordinary moments, not just the sacred ones.

The grief is real, but so is the hand reaching back through the foam.