You Do Not Have to Be Missed

The water is warm, but your hands are shaking as you scrub the plate they just used. You wonder, in the quiet clatter of the sink, if your absence tonight would even register in the rhythm of their day.

Would they notice the silence, or just wash the next dish themselves? The light does not wait for them to notice you to prove you are real.

It is already humming beneath the soap suds, holding you steady when your own legs feel like giving out. You are not invisible just because you feel unseen.

The Father's love is not a reaction to your performance; it is the ground you are standing on right now. It was there before the first question formed in your mind, and it will be there long after the last dish is dried.

You do not have to be missed to be held. You are already home.