He Ran Before You Spoke

The afternoon sun makes everything visible, and right now, you are terrified that your history will be seen. You walk through the middle of the day wearing a mask, convinced that if they knew the truth of what you've done, they would leave immediately.

But there is a Father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — covered in the filth of his worst choices — and he did not turn away. He ran.

Before the apology, before the speech — he ran. The light does not need you to be clean before it comes close.

It already knows the darkest parts of your story, and it has not left. You are not loved despite your history; you are loved with it.

The terror says run; the light says stay.