Love Runs to the Mess

The house is quiet now, and the shadows are lengthening across the floor. This is the hour when the mask slips, and the old fear crawls back in—the terror that if they really saw the depth of your brokenness, their love would curdle into pity or disgust.

You hold your breath, waiting for them to turn away. But there is a love that does not flinch at the dark.

The Father saw the son while he was still a long way off, covered in the filth of the pig pen, and ran to meet him before the apology could even be formed. He did not run to a cleaned-up version.

He ran to the mess. That same love lives inside you, and it knows exactly what you are hiding.

It is not waiting for you to be presentable. It is already running.