He Wants to Eat With the Tired

The day is ending, and the quiet feels less like rest and more like a test. You are convinced that the people who love you are only tolerating your exhaustion, and that if you ever just sat still—stripped of your usefulness, your noise, your effort—they would finally walk away.

But listen to the voice in the gathering dark. There is one who stood at a door and knocked, not to demand entry, but to ask for a meal.

He did not come to be served by the capable. He came to sit with the tired.

He wants to eat with you, exactly as you are, in the silence you fear. Your stillness is not a reason for them to leave.

It is the very thing that makes space for them to stay. The love you are waiting to lose is already resting in the room with you.