The Light Stands With You in the Shower

The water is loud enough to hide the sound, but it cannot hide the weight you are carrying. You stand there letting it wash over you, terrified that a single sob might slip through the tiles and wake the house.

You think you are protecting them by swallowing your grief, by becoming invisible behind the steam. But the light does not need you to be quiet to be near you.

It is not frightened by your tears or your shaking hands. It stands right there in the shower with you, in the noise and the heat and the brokenness you try to mute.

You are not failing your children because you are hurting. You are human.

And the Father who sees you in this secret place is not disappointed; he is holding you so you do not fall. The water will stop eventually.

The silence will return. But the love that knows your weeping is already louder than any noise you could ever make.