He Ran Because He Could Not Wait

The house is quiet now, and in this silence, the old fear creeps back in. The suspicion that you were only tolerated here.

That your presence was a burden others quietly endured. That if you left, the relief in the room would be palpable.

You feel like the guest who overstayed, waiting for the host to finally ask you to go. But listen — the Father does not tolerate you.

He runs to you. Before you could even finish your apology, before you could prove your worth, he saw you from a long way off and sprinted across the field to meet you.

He did not walk with dignified slowness; he ran, undignified and desperate, because he could not wait another second to hold you. You are not the person the host wishes would leave.

You are the one the host has been watching the road for. The feast was not prepared in spite of your return; it was prepared because of it.

The door was never locked against you; it was left open because you were expected.