The Father Runs to Your Tears

The house is quiet, but your heart is racing because you heard the handle turn. You are still wiping your eyes, scrambling to make your voice sound normal before you step out into the hall.

You are terrified they will see the cracks. You are terrified they will know you were crying.

But the light does not need your performance. It does not need you to be composed.

The Prodigal Son was still covered in pig filth, still rehearsing his apology, still a long way off when his father saw him. And the father did not wait for the speech.

He ran. He runs to you now, not to the version of you that has dried its tears, but to the one who is still weeping.

You do not have to fix your face before you open the door. The light is already on the other side, and it is not looking for a mask.

It is looking for you.