The Light Waits While You Run

The house is quiet now, and the silence feels like a verdict. You are waiting for a forgiveness you are convinced you do not deserve, holding your breath as if the air itself might reject you.

But listen — the light does not wait for you to be worthy before it enters. It stands at the door and knocks, not to demand entry, but to offer presence.

You think you must earn the right to be held, yet the Father's love is not a wage you work for — it is a gift that arrives while you are still far off. The darkness has not overcome it.

The silence you feel is not absence; it is the space where the light is already waiting for you to stop running. You are not defined by what you did, but by the love that refuses to let you go.