The Light Eats With You

The day is ending, and the armor you wore to survive it is finally coming off. Now the silence rushes in, heavy with the memory of eyes that saw you stumble.

You feel exposed, as if your failure is a stain that everyone can still see. But listen — the light does not recoil from your shame.

It stood at the door of a man who cheated his own neighbors and said, "I must stay at your house today." It did not wait for him to clean up his act. It came while he was still a sinner.

The light is not afraid of your public unraveling. It enters the room where you are hiding and sits down to eat with you.

You do not have to fix this tonight. You only have to open the door.