The Light Is Already Running Toward You

The afternoon stretches out, long and gray, while you rehearse words in your head that may never be spoken. You are building a case for a forgiveness no one has asked you to give, carrying a weight that belongs to a conversation that hasn't happened yet.

The light does not live in your rehearsing — it lives in the quiet space between you and them, right now. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He ran. Before the apology, before the speech — he ran.

You do not need to perfect your explanation to be held. The light is already running toward you, not because you got the words right, but because you are loved.

Stop practicing for a trial that isn't happening. The mercy you are trying to earn is already waiting at the door.