Safe Even Wet and Trembling

The water has turned cold, but you are still standing there, letting it hit your skin because stepping out means becoming a person again. The steam hides you.

The noise drowns out the silence of the room. To dry off is to admit the day is done and tomorrow is waiting with its demands.

But listen — the light does not require you to be ready before you leave the water. It is already in the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet lid, waiting not for your performance but for your presence.

You do not have to armor up to be loved. The Father sees you shivering in the stall and does not ask why you are not dressed yet.

He just wants you to know you are safe, even wet, even trembling. The person you are afraid to become is already held.