Clean Before You Dry Your Tears

The water runs cold, but the stain feels deeper than skin. You have scrubbed until your hands ache, trying to wash away a memory that clings like smoke.

In this hour, the shame whispers that you are defined by what happened, that no amount of cleansing can make you whole again. But listen — there was a woman who touched the edge of a robe while bleeding for twelve years, considered untouchable by the whole world.

She did not clean herself up first. She reached out from the dirt, trembling, and the light stopped the entire crowd to call her 'Daughter.' He did not say: go wash and then come back.

He said: your faith has healed you; go in peace. The dirt on your hands is not who you are.

The light sees the person beneath the grime and calls you clean before you have even dried your tears. You are not what you cannot wash away.

You are the one being held right now.