Light Sitting in the Empty Chair

The house is quiet now, and the chair across from you feels heavier than the silence itself. You set the table for a crowd that isn't coming, and the empty plates stare back like accusations you didn't write.

It is exhausting to perform joy for an audience of one when your heart is breaking over ghosts. But notice how the light does not demand you fill the empty seats before it enters.

It slips into the room anyway, quiet as dust motes dancing in the fading sun. The Father's love is not a feast that requires a full table to be real.

It is the warmth that stays when the guests have gone. You are not alone in this hollow space.

The light is sitting right there in the empty chair, keeping watch over your grief. Tonight, the absence is not a verdict.

It is the very place where the unseen Presence leans in closest.