The Light Dives Into Your Deep End

The sun is setting, and the weight you carried all day feels heavier now that the noise has stopped. You are holding your breath, terrified that if you finally say the words—'I am drowning'—the person beside you will stand up and walk away.

But listen: the light does not flee from the deep end. It dives in.

There was a man who had been sick for years, lying on a mat while the world stepped over him, convinced he was too broken to be touched. The light saw him, stopped the crowd, and said, 'I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.' It did not come for the clean; it came for the mess.

Your need is not a burden that drives love away; it is the very signal that draws it closer. The fear says they will leave if you speak.

The truth says they have been waiting for you to stop pretending you are fine. You do not have to dry off before you are loved.

Say the word. The hand is already reaching down.