The Light That Arrives To Stay

The afternoon sun feels heavy on your shoulders, and with it comes a quiet, nagging terror. You look at the good things in your life—your work, your people, your peace—and you brace for the moment they are ripped away.

You hold them tighter, as if your grip could stop the turning of the world. But there is a light inside you that does not tremble at the shadow of loss.

It stands at the door of your heart and knocks, waiting for you to stop guarding what you cannot keep. Open the door.

Let it come in and eat with you. The light does not arrive to take; it arrives to stay.

What cannot be taken is already seated at your table.