The Light Sits at Your Table

The cart holds two of everything because your hands remember a rhythm that no longer exists. You bought the cereal, the fruit, the bread, acting out a script written for a family that has shrunk to one.

It is only in the checkout line, under the harsh fluorescent hum, that the math catches up with you. The realization lands heavy: there is no one else to eat this.

No one else to share the load. In the gathering dark, the silence of the house feels like a verdict on your solitude.

But listen — the light does not scold you for the extra loaf. It sees the love that built the habit, not the empty chair at the table.

You are not forgotten because the pantry is full. The Father's light is already inside you, waiting to turn this surplus into a feast for one.

The extra food is not a mistake; it is proof that your heart still knows how to provide. Tonight, you do not have to eat alone to be held.

The light sits at the table with you.