You Are Where Light Dwells

The house is moving now, and you are moving with it, smiling at the breakfast table while carrying a weight that feels too heavy for a morning. You worry that your children see only the cracks in your voice, mistaking your exhaustion for a lack of love, fearing they are watching a broken burden rather than a tired parent.

But the light sees behind the mask you wear to keep the peace. It knows that your fatigue is not a failure of spirit, but the honest cost of showing up.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — and before the apology, before the speech, he ran. That same love is running toward you right now, not because you are perfect, but because you are here.

You are not a burden to the light; you are the very place where it chooses to dwell.