The Light Asks You to Stop

The water is hot enough to sting, but you keep scrubbing the cup no one ever touched. You tell yourself the heat doesn't matter, that if you just work faster, the redness on your hands will fade before anyone sees.

But the light does not ask for clean dishes. It asks for your hands to stop moving.

There was a woman who reached out in a crowd, trembling, and the power went out of him not because she was worthy, but because she stopped hiding. The light felt her touch and turned around.

You do not have to earn the right to put the sponge down. The sting is not a punishment — it is a signal that you are still alive, still feeling, still here.

The Father is not waiting for the kitchen to be perfect. He is waiting for you to sit.

The water cools. The cup remains.

But you are already held.