Holy Ground Beneath Your Feet

The sun is setting, and the armor you wore all day to prove you belong here feels heavy enough to crush your ribs. You have spent hours translating yourself, shrinking your voice, hoping that if you make yourself small enough, the walls will stop pressing in.

But the light does not ask for your papers or your performance before it shines on you. It simply arrives, like the rising sun mentioned in Luke, tender and inevitable, ignoring the borders you cannot cross.

There is a place prepared for you that no immigration office can deny and no hostile stare can revoke. You are building a home not on the fragile ground of acceptance, but on the rock of a love that saw you before you ever stepped onto this soil.

The day is done; you can stop proving your worth to a world that demands too much. The light is already inside you, making this foreign ground holy just by your standing on it.