Running Before You Have Words

The house is quiet now, but the echo of that question still hangs in the air. Your child asked you something about God, about why we believe, about where the light goes when it gets dark.

And you opened your mouth and found nothing there. No answer.

No theology. Just silence.

In that silence, you felt like a fraud. Like you were sending them out into the night without a map.

But listen — the light does not require you to have the answers. It only requires you to stay.

There was a moment, long ago, when a father saw his son coming home from a long way off. He did not wait for a speech.

He did not demand an explanation. He ran.

Before the apology, before the words — he ran. Your not knowing is not a wall.

It is the very ground where the light meets you. You do not need to be the source.

You only need to be the one who stays in the room when the lights go out. The question was not a test you failed.

It was an invitation to stop pretending and simply walk together in the dark.