The Light Kneels in Your Mess

The laugh catches in your throat, and for a second, you are terrified it will shatter into something wet and broken right in front of them. You are holding your breath, waiting for the mask to slip, certain that if the sobbing starts, it will never stop.

But listen — the light does not run from the sound of your breaking. There was a moment in a garden, late and dark, where the light itself fell on its face in the dirt, overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death, begging for the cup to pass.

It did not compose itself. It did not hold it together.

It wept openly before the end came. And the Father did not turn away.

God is greater than your heart's condemnation, greater than the fear that your grief makes you unlovable. The terror says you must be strong to be held.

The truth says you are held so that you can finally be weak. You do not have to swallow the cry.

Let it come. The light is already kneeling in the mess of it with you.