The Light Drying on Your Skin

The water is loud enough to hide the sound, but not loud enough to wash away the shame. You cry in the shower so the family doesn't hear, and then you feel guilty for the secrecy itself. As if your grief is a burden they should not have to carry. As if your pain makes you less than whole in their eyes.

But there is a room inside you where the Father sees what is done in secret. He is not offended by the closed door. He is present in the steam and the silence. He knows the tears are not a failure of faith — they are the sound of a heart that still feels.

And when you step out, wrapped in a towel and trembling, know this: the light that lives in you was not dimmed by the crying. It was not broken by the guilt. It was there before the water turned on, and it is there now, drying on your skin.

You do not have to be the strong one tonight. You just have to be the real one.