The Light That Sees Your Tears

The day is ending, and the quiet brings back a memory you thought you had buried. A small child, crying in a crowded room, told to stop making a scene.

Told that your pain was too loud, too messy, too much. So you learned to swallow the tears.

You learned to be still. But the light does not ask for your silence.

It saw that child then, and it sees you now. There is a father who ran to his son before the apology was even finished — he did not care about the scene, he only cared about the child.

Your grief was never a burden to God. It was the very thing that drew the light closer.

The tears you were forced to hide are the ones the light waits to wipe away tonight.