The Father Runs Before You Speak

The afternoon sun is high, but you are holding your breath in the middle of the day, terrified that moving a muscle will break the silence and reveal you are awake. You lie perfectly still, pretending to be asleep, because the weight of being seen feels heavier than the weight of the silence.

But the light does not need you to perform rest. It does not require you to hide your wakefulness to be loved.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — while the son was still rehearsing his apology, while he was still covered in the dust of his failure, the father ran. He did not wait for the speech.

He did not wait for the performance to be perfect. He ran.

You do not have to pretend to be asleep for the light to find you. It sees you lying there, afraid and awake, and it is already running toward you.

The mask is not required. The stillness is not a condition.

You are known, even in the pretense, and you are loved anyway.