Held by Light in the Steam

The water is loud enough to hide the sound of you breaking. Finally, the mask can slip.

You do not have to hold it together here. The steam rises like a prayer you cannot speak aloud.

And in this small, tiled sanctuary, you are not hidden from the light — you are held by it. The Father sees you not as a performance to be judged, but as a child to be gathered.

He does not ask you to stop crying. He simply steps into the spray with you.

The water washes the face, but the presence washes the shame. You thought you were alone because the door was locked.

But the light does not need an open door to be near. It was already in the steam.

It was already in the tears. You are not washing away your worth.

You are letting the weight fall so you can remember what remains when the water stops. The silence after the sobbing is not empty.

It is full of the One who knew you were crying before you turned the handle.