He Runs Before You Can Apologize

The house is finally quiet, but your bones feel heavy with the day's noise. You have held everyone else up while no one held you.

In the gathering dark, it is easy to believe you are alone in this exhaustion. But there is a Father who sees you from a long way off.

He does not wait for you to clean up the mess or find the right words. He runs.

Before you can explain your fatigue, before you can apologize for being tired — he runs. The light inside you has not flickered out; it is simply waiting for you to stop moving so you can feel it again.

You are not abandoned in this quiet; you are being gathered. The night is not a sign that you are failing; it is the space where the light finds you.