Resting in the Light That Finds You

The sun is rising, and with it comes the heavy quiet of a plan you had to cancel. You stayed home because the thought of the crowd made your hands shake, and now the shame is whispering that you are broken, that you are too much trouble to keep around.

But look at the light coming through the window — it does not demand you go out and face the noise before you are ready. It simply arrives.

It fills the very room where you hid. There was a man who lay beside a pool for thirty-eight years, trapped by his own inability to move, and the light did not scold him for missing the gathering.

It came to him. It asked if he wanted to get well, and then it told him to stand.

The light is not angry that you needed to stay in the quiet today. It is right here, in the stillness you chose for survival.

You are not hiding from the love that holds you — you are resting in it until your hands stop shaking. The courage of this morning is not that you showed up to the party, but that you are still here, breathing, letting the dawn find you exactly where you are.