Where the Lamp Belongs

This morning I returned to Matthew 5:14—“You are the light of the world.” I’ve read it so many times, but today it felt less like a command and more like a quiet naming. Not a spotlight. Not a performance. Just presence.
A city on a hill isn’t trying to be seen. It simply is. Built up, weathered, unmoved. And the lamp—it’s not hidden beneath the bushel. It’s placed where it can offer warmth to anyone nearby. That’s all. No striving. No spectacle.
I’ve noticed lately how peace—when it’s real—doesn’t need to announce itself. When I’m not tangled in anxiety, when I’m simply enjoying the Lord, others feel it. Not always with words. Sometimes just in the way I answer the phone. The way I don’t rush. The way I don’t fill silence with worry.
The world is loud with fear. Job insecurity. Boss trouble. The ache of not enough. But I’m learning to be one of the hallelujah people. Not because I’m untouched by grief or confusion, but because I’ve chosen what to speak of. Christ. The church. The quiet beauty of being held.
It’s strange how this kind of shining works. Society sees the city—the gathered ones, the ones who refuse to be hidden. But the deeper light is personal. My cousin, for example. He never hears me talk about money or survival. He hears praise. He sees joy. And something in him softens.
I’m not trying to convince anyone. I’m just trying to live uncovered. And somehow, that’s enough. The light finds its way in.

Would you like to shape this into a series of entries, or pair it with a visual metaphor or liturgical refrain? I can also help you explore how this moment might echo in your memoir or devotional work.