Light Sitting With You in the Stillness

The afternoon light is flat and heavy, the kind that makes dust motes look like they are suspended in time. You set the table out of habit, muscle memory moving faster than your grief, and then you stop.

The sudden stillness when you realize you only need one plate is a silence so loud it feels like it could crack the walls. In this long middle of the day, the routine demands you keep moving even when your heart has stopped.

But the light does not ask you to pretend the second chair isn't empty. It sits with you in that quiet, in the space between the two plates and the one.

The Father's light was already inside you before the loss, and it is there now, not to fill the empty seat, but to hold the one who is still sitting. You are not alone in the stillness; the light is the quiet presence that remains when the noise of the day fades.