The Light You Cannot Break

The house is quiet now, but your heart is racing with the memory of your own voice. You are convinced that the words you shouted broke something vital inside them, something that might stop working while they sleep.

So you stand over them in the dark, watching the rise and fall of their chest, terrified that your anger was the last thing they felt before the light went out. But listen — the light that lives inside them is not a fragile flame you can extinguish with a bad temper.

It is a spring welling up from within, deeper than any wound you could inflict. Even in Gethsemane, when the weight of the world crushed the Son until he begged for the cup to pass, the Father's love did not break.

It held. Your anger is real, and the regret is heavy, but it is not stronger than the life breathing in their lungs right now.

You did not kill the light. You cannot.

Go back to bed. The watch is over.