Stop Mining for Poison in Grace

The morning light hits the mask you wore to work, and now you are alone with the echo of every kind word spoken to you today. You turn them over in your hands like stones, searching for the sharp edge, the hidden accusation, the proof that they were just being polite.

You dissect the compliment until it bleeds, convinced that if you find the flaw, you can control the fall. But the light that sees you does not speak in riddles.

It said to the man born blind: 'Go, wash.' It did not question his worthiness. It did not hide a trap in the command.

It simply saw him and spoke truth. When you hear kindness, your heart says 'they don't know the real me,' but the voice that formed you knows the real you better than you do.

The light is not trying to trick you. It is trying to reach you.

Stop mining for poison in the well of grace. The water is clear.

Drink.