The Light Works in the Shiver

The water has turned cold, but you stay standing there, letting it hit your back because stepping out means admitting you ran out. You are performing okayness for an empty bathroom, pretending the chill doesn't matter so you don't have to face the day knowing your resources are depleted.

There was a man born blind, and his friends asked whose fault it was—his or his parents'. The light said neither.

It said this happened so the works of God might be displayed in him. Your cold shower is not a failure of preparation.

It is a canvas. What you look forward to has already come, but you do not recognize it because you are too busy pretending you are still warm.

The light does not need your hot water to work. It works in the shiver.

It works in the honest admission that you are cold.