The Light Fits in the Hollow

The afternoon sun is bright, but inside you feel like a hollow room where the paint is peeling. You move through the hours performing a wholeness you do not possess, terrified that if someone saw the empty space behind your ribs, they would turn and walk away.

But there is a seeing that does not recoil from the dark. When the light looked at a paralyzed man lowered through a roof, it saw the fear beneath the broken body and said simply: take heart.

It did not demand you fill the hollow first. It did not ask you to repair the walls before entering.

The light walks into the empty room and sits down, not because the room is full, but because the light itself is the furniture, the air, the life. You are not unlovable because you are broken; you are loved in the breaking.

The hollow is not a reason for them to leave; it is the very place where the light fits.