He Ran Into the Dirt With You

The house is quiet now, and the mask you wore all day has finally slipped. In this silence, the terror rises: if they saw the cracks, if they knew the depth of your brokenness, they would turn away.

You hide the shards because you believe love is a reward for being whole. But there is a love that does not flinch at the mess.

The Father saw the prodigal while he was still a long way off—covered in filth, rehearsing his failures—and ran to meet him before a single word of apology could be spoken. He did not wait for you to clean up.

He ran into the dirt with you. The light does not love you despite your brokenness; it loves you because it knows that brokenness is where the light gets in.

You are not a project to be fixed before you are worthy of affection. You are already held.

The fear says you must be perfect to be kept. The truth says you are known completely, and still, you are not let go.