The Light Knows Your Silence

The afternoon sun is high, and the world demands your voice in a language that feels like a mask. You woke from the dream with your mother's tone still ringing in your ears, but your tongue has forgotten the shape of the words that used to come so easily.

It is a specific kind of loneliness to stand in the middle of the day, surrounded by noise, yet unable to speak the dialect of your own heart. You feel like a stranger in your own mouth.

But the light does not require perfect grammar to hear you. It knows the accent of your silence.

It knows the sound of your grief before you can form the syllables. The Father's love is not a language you must relearn to be understood; it is the breath that fills your lungs before you speak at all.

You do not need to find the words to be held. The light is already speaking your name in the rhythm of your heartbeat.