The Light That Fills Your Silence

The house is quiet now, and the silence feels heavy enough to break you. You are holding your breath, terrified that if you speak, you will accidentally cover the only space where their voice used to live.

But listen — the light does not need you to be quiet to be present. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He ran. Before the apology, before the speech — he ran.

The distance did not matter. The silence did not stop him.

God is light; in him there is no darkness at all. And that light is not afraid of your quiet.

It is not afraid of your words. It fills the room whether you speak or not.

You are not protecting a memory by staying silent. You are hiding the very thing that keeps you alive.

The light inside you is the same light that lived in them. It cannot be spoken over.

It cannot be drowned out. It is the ground beneath the silence.

Speak if you need to. Or don't.

The light hears both.