You Are Not Too Heavy To Be Held

The house is quiet now, but your mind is loud with the fear that your exhaustion is a weight you are forcing someone else to carry. You lie still, trying to make yourself smaller, convinced that your need is a burden too heavy for love to hold.

But there is a love that does not calculate the cost of your care. It saw a man paralyzed for thirty-eight years lying by a pool, unable to help himself, and it did not ask him to stand up first.

It asked if he wanted to get well. It did not wait for him to be light enough to lift.

It spoke to the heaviness directly. Your fatigue is not a failure of your faith.

It is simply the place where you stop pretending you can carry it all. The light does not buckle under the weight of your weariness.

It kneels beside it. You are not too heavy to be held.