Your Trembling Hands Are Not Dangerous

The house is awake, but you are standing still in the doorway, watching your child play while your own hands feel like dangerous things. You know the shape of the hurt you carried into this room yesterday, and you are terrified that reaching out will only reopen the wound.

So you wait. You perform the okayness of a parent who has it together, smiling from a safe distance while your heart screams to hold them.

But the light does not wait for you to be perfect before it moves. It knows that your hesitation is not a lack of love — it is the very proof of it.

You are afraid because you care more than you can say. And the same light that lived in Jesus lives in your trembling hands right now.

It cannot accidentally destroy what it came to heal. Your touch is not the weapon you fear it is.

It is the only thing strong enough to mend what was broken.