The Light Counts You Not Your Crumbs

The day has ended, and the door is locked. You sit with what you've hidden, not because you are greedy, but because a quiet voice inside says there might not be enough tomorrow.

The shame of it burns hotter than the hunger ever could. You feel small, curled around a stash of crumbs, convinced that if you let go, you will starve.

But listen — the light does not scold you for being afraid. It sits on the floor beside you in the dark.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, still carrying the filth of the pig pen, and he ran before the apology could even form. He did not ask what the son had done with his share.

He only cared that he was back. That same love is here now, in this room, in this exhale.

It knows you hoarded because you were scared, not because you are bad. The light is not counting your supplies.

It is counting you. And it says you are worth more than the food you fear losing.

The door is open. The feast is ready.

You can put the stash down now.