The Light That Stays When You Tremble

The sun has gone down, and the house is quiet enough to hear the things you tried to bury today. You remember the moment your voice cracked, or the tear that fell, and you see the faces of the people who looked away.

You feel the heat of having made them uncomfortable simply by being human. You wish you could take it back.

You wish you had stayed strong, stayed silent, stayed small. But listen — the light does not look away when you tremble.

There is a cup that was held in the dark before the end, and the one who held it asked his friends to stay awake with him in his sorrow. They fell asleep.

They could not bear the weight of his vulnerability. Yet he did not revoke their belonging.

He did not hide his pain to make them comfortable. The light entered the deepest discomfort of the world and called it holy.

Your tears are not a burden that drives love away. They are the place where the real work happens.

The gathering dark is not here to shame you for needing others. It is here to show you who can sit with you in the mess.