The Light Does Not Recoil From Mess

The house is quiet, but your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You feel the warmth spreading, the shame rising before anyone else even knows you've fallen.

In this stillness, the panic whispers that you are ruined, that you are too dirty to be touched. But listen — the light does not recoil from mess.

There was a woman who bled for twelve years, untouchable by the laws of her world, yet she reached out from the crowd and touched the hem of a robe. She expected to be rebuked for her contamination.

Instead, the power went out of him into her. He did not scold her for making him unclean.

He called her daughter. The light was not soiled by her touch; she was healed by his presence.

You are not defined by the accident your body just betrayed you with. The light is already here, standing in the quiet dark with you, not turning away.

You do not have to clean yourself up before you are loved.