God Meets You in the Car

The engine is off, but the heat in your chest hasn't faded. You roll the window down just a crack—barely enough to breathe, barely enough to be seen.

You watch the side mirror, praying no coworker walks past the parking lot to catch you there. Ashamed that you need to cry in a car instead of at your desk.

Ashamed that the mask slipped before you even made it home. But listen—the light does not require an audience.

It does not demand you perform your grief in a sanctuary or behind a closed door. It meets you in the driver's seat, in the stale air, in the half-open window.

The One who knew the weight of the world sat in gardens and on wellsides, hidden from the crowds, just to breathe. You are not hiding from God by sitting here.

You are making space for Him. The shame says you should be stronger.

The truth says you are exactly where you need to be to let the exhaust out and the peace in.