The Light Loves You in the Waiting

The afternoon asks its questions, loud and careless, while you carry a silence that could swallow the room. You smile because the mask is lighter than the truth, but inside, the ache is a heavy, ordinary thing.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He ran.

Before the apology, before the speech — he ran. The light does not ask for your productivity or your future.

It sees the hollow space and calls it holy. You are not defined by what is missing.

You are defined by what is present — the love that has no place to go yet, but is real all the same. The kingdom grows while you sleep, without your forcing it.

Your worth is not in the seed you haven't planted. It is in the soil that holds you right now.

The light is not waiting for a child to love you. It is loving you in the waiting.