The Light Runs Toward Your Mess

The afternoon is long, and you are still rehearsing the words you wish you hadn't said. You flinched.

You snapped. And now the silence in the room feels like a verdict, heavy with the fear that they see you as broken, or worse, dangerous.

But the light does not run from your stumbles. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — before the apology, before the speech, he ran.

The light runs toward the mess you made. It does not wait for you to clean it up first.

Your shame tells you that you are too much. The truth is simpler — you are known entirely, and you are still held.

The flinch was human. The love is divine.

And the love is greater than the fear.