The Light That Waits Beside You

The house is quiet now, but the noise inside your head is loud enough to drown out the stars. You are lying there convinced that what you have done, or who you have been, has made you permanently unlovable.

You feel like a stranger to the light you claim to know. But listen — there was a woman caught in the very act, surrounded by stones and shame, and the light did not condemn her.

It bent down. It wrote in the dust.

It waited for the accusers to leave until it was just her and the mercy. And then it said: neither do I condemn you.

The voice in your head says you are finished. The light says you are forgiven before you even ask.

You cannot out-sin the love that is already sitting beside you in this dark room. The night feels long, but the light has never left your chest.

You are not waiting to be worthy; you are waiting to believe you already are.