The Hand That Rests Instead of Strikes

The hand approaches and you are already gone—flinching before the fingers even graze your skin. You have learned to brace for the blow because so many touches in this life have landed like stones.

But tonight, in this deepest hour, notice what happens when the light finally reaches you. It does not strike.

It does not grab. It rests.

There was a man covered in sores, untouchable for twelve years, who reached out trembling for just the hem of a robe; when the contact came, it was not a punishment but a healing warmth that called him 'daughter.' The touch you fear is not the one coming. The hand hovering over your shoulder is open, not closed.

It is waiting to hold what you have been carrying, not to hit it. You can stop ducking now.

The blow will never land.