12/31/2025
There is a quiet kind of faith that lives in small corners of a home. It settles near the door, curls itself into the shape of hope, and waits.
A dog does not mark time the way we do. There are no minutes or hours, no impatience tapping at the floor. There is only the belief that the sound they are listening for will arrive. The click of a lock. The shift of keys. Your footsteps finding their way back.
While the day carries you through meetings, errands, worries, and noise, there is a steady presence at home. Watching light move across the floor. Listening to the world through walls. Knowing, without doubt, that this waiting has meaning.
We often call this habit. Or training. Or loyalty. But it is none of those things. It is trust without proof. Love without reminders. A promise kept silently, day after day.
Most evenings, we do not notice it. We step inside distracted. We greet them quickly, then move on. We rarely pause to think about how long they held that space for us, or how much faith it takes to believe someone will always return.
Until the day no one is there.
Then the door feels different. The floor feels empty in a way that cannot be explained. And you realize the truth you missed while it was happening.
The purest kind of devotion does not ask for attention. It simply waits.
Every day.
And believes you are worth it.
