“I will surely gather the remnant…” – Micah 2:12
The remnant came back.
Kneeling in the corner.
Holding her candle.
She had walked away many times.
But something deeper than thought drew her back to the ruin,
back to the bones of what was holy,
back to where the prayers still rose without voices,
where incense lingered in the stone.
She cried—not for herself,
but for what could have been.
She prayed it could have been different.
But it could not.
Because the remnant does not return to please.
It does not return for applause.
It returns because it remembers.
It returns because it must.
It returns because the walls were praying.
She could hear them.
Ancient cries soaked into mortar and ash,
liturgies echoing between cracks.
Even the silence had shape.
She was not there for them.
She was there for for the One who still walks these halls unseen.
For the Love that never fled, even when everything else did.
To be the remnant is to bear memory in your bones.
To light the candle when the world goes dim.
To kneel alone and still call it worship.
To belong not to the crowd, but to the holy.
We are the remnant.
Those who return.
Those who remember.
Those who still believe.
Even here.
Even now.
Especially now.