The Light Sitting Beside You

The afternoon light falls across the second chair, and you set the table for two out of habit, or perhaps out of hope that refuses to die. The silence in the room is loud, a heavy weight that settles where the other plate should be.

You are living in the long middle of the day, where the routine feels less like a rhythm and more like a sentence. But notice the light filling that empty space—it does not shy away from the vacancy.

It sits in the chair you set. The Father's love is expressed as light, and that light has already taken the seat beside you.

You are not dining with your grief. You are eating in the presence of the One who never left.

The table was never really empty.