He Runs Before You Clean Up

The day is ending, and the mask you wore for twelve hours feels like it has fused to your skin. You are terrified that if anyone saw the cracks beneath it—the real, jagged brokenness—they would turn away.

But there is a Father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, still covered in the filth of his failure, and he did not wait for the boy to clean up. He ran.

He ran before the apology, before the speech, before the shame could even be spoken. The light does not love the performance; it loves the person underneath.

It has already seen the worst of you, and it is still here. It is not waiting for you to be whole to stay.

The darkness gathers, but it cannot hide you from the one who runs toward your brokenness.