He Ran Before You Spoke

The house is quiet now, and the silence feels heavy enough to crush you. In this watch, the fear whispers that if anyone saw the depth of your brokenness, they would turn and run.

But there is a Father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, still covered in the filth of the pig pen, and he did not recoil. He ran.

Before the apology, before the speech, before the shame could even be spoken — he ran. The light does not need you to be clean before it comes close.

It knows the worst of you, the hidden parts you guard so fiercely, and it has not moved an inch. You are not loved despite your darkness; you are loved because the light itself lives inside you.

The one who is in you is greater than the fear that tries to make you hide.