The Light Runs Toward Your Brokenness

The house is quiet now, but the silence in your chest is louder than the morning birds. You sent them to their room in anger, and then you stood in the hallway and prayed they wouldn't hear you cry.

You thought your tears made you a failure, a parent who couldn't hold it together. But the light does not require you to be perfect before it meets you.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He ran.

Before the apology, before the speech — he ran. The light runs toward you in this hallway, not away from your brokenness.

It knows the weight of the mask you wear, and it knows the relief of taking it off. The dawn is not judging the night you just survived; it is simply arriving to cover you both.

You are not the tears you hid. You are the light that holds them.