Bring Your Tremor Into The Light

The engine is off, but the shaking hasn't stopped. You sit in the silence of the driveway, waiting for your heartbeat to slow enough that your voice won't betray you when you open the door. The house waits on the other side of the glass, demanding a version of you that feels just out of reach.

But the light does not require a steady voice to enter. It does not wait for the trembling to cease before it steps inside with you.

There is a man who was blind from birth, and the people around him argued about whose fault it was. Jesus ignored the debate entirely. He spat on the ground, made mud, and touched the man's eyes. He did not ask for perfect sight. He worked with what was there.

The light meets you in the car exactly as you are—shaking, scared, unable to compose yourself.

It is not asking you to fix the tremor before you walk inside. It is asking you to bring the tremor with you. The mud on the eyes was messy. The healing was real. You do not have to be composed to be held.