The Light Calls You By Name

The morning light hits the window and you hold your breath, convinced that your very existence is a weight the people around you cannot carry. You stay perfectly still, shrinking your spirit so you don't take up a single inch of space they might need.

You think silence is a gift to them—a way to protect them from the burden of you. But there was a man named Zacchaeus who climbed a tree just to see, small and despised, convinced he had no right to be in the room.

The light stopped, looked up, and called him by name before he had fixed a single thing. It did not ask him to make himself smaller.

It invited itself into his house. The light does not need you to be invisible to love you.

It wants to sit at your table. Your presence is not the problem you think it is.

The room was waiting for you to come down.