The Light Remains When Words Are Gone

The afternoon sun is high, and the shadows are short, but inside you feels like a long, quiet twilight. You have lost the map you trusted for years, and without it, the familiar streets of your own life feel foreign.

You wonder who you are when the words you used to pray no longer come. But the light does not depend on your ability to name it.

It was there before you found the words, and it remains now that they are gone. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He ran. Before the apology, before the speech — he ran.

The light is not waiting for you to get your beliefs back in order. It is already running toward you, not to correct your theology, but to embrace the person who is left when the theology falls away.

You are not the beliefs you lost. You are the light that remains when they are gone.