You Do Not Have to Hold On

The sun has gone down, and the house is quiet, but your hands are still clenched around the good things of today. You are holding them so tightly that your knuckles are white, bracing for the moment they vanish.

It feels like if you loosen your grip even a fraction, the loss will come sooner. But you cannot enjoy the gift while you are guarding the exit.

There was a man who built bigger barns to store his harvest, thinking he could secure his future, only to find that his life was demanded from him that very night. The barns could not save him.

The light does not ask you to store up safety for a tomorrow you cannot control. It asks you to receive the bread that is in your hand right now.

The darkness is gathering outside, yes. But the light is already inside the room, and it is sufficient for this hour.

You do not have to hold on so hard. The light holds you.