The Light That Kneels Beside You

The house is quiet now, and the day's performance has finally ended. In the silence, you are left alone with the parts of yourself you wish you could hide—the broken body that needs help to be clean.

Shame whispers that you are too much trouble, that needing hands to wipe you makes you less than human. But listen.

There was a moment when the Light of the World knelt on the floor with a basin and a towel, washing the dirty, road-worn feet of his friends. He did not stand above them.

He got low. He touched the grime.

He did not flinch at the dirt. The same light that knelt then lives inside you now.

It is not repulsed by your dependence. It is not waiting for you to be independent before it loves you.

The gathering dark does not expose your failure; it reveals the One who is willing to kneel beside you in your weakness. You are not a burden to the light.

You are the very reason it came down.