There is a holy clarity that arrives when strength runs out.

When all pretence is stripped away, and we find ourselves face-to-face with our own breaking, the room grows honest. Smiles that once seemed safe now reveal their scaffolds or masks, and the noise of flattery fades into silence. It is there — in the quiet rubble of what once held us — that truth begins to speak.

Some hands will weigh you down under the guise of help, while others will lift you with gentleness that asks for nothing in return. These are the sacred ones — the few who kneel beside your wreckage, name your light when you cannot see it, and whisper hope into the dust.

I think of the words from Steve De’lano Garcia:

There is something profoundly Christlike in that rising — not a triumph of pride, but a resurrection of truth. Even in the shadows, His hands reach first, not to measure our fall but to lift us into grace.

💡Reflection:

• Who knelt beside your wreckage? 🤔

• How might you honour them (and the God who sent them) by the way you rise?🤔

🙌 Prayer:

Lord Jesus, thank You for the few who stayed when others turned away, for the hands that helped me rise and the hearts that reflected Yours. Teach me to discern mercy from manipulation, and to carry gratitude instead of bitterness as I rise again in Your light. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.