The Love That Runs Before You Speak

The house is quiet now, but the world outside is already loud with people pretending to be okay. You put on the mask because the day demands it, but your chest feels like it is holding a stone.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He did not wait for the apology.

He ran. Before the speech, before the cleanup — he ran.

That same love is running toward you right now, even behind your smile. It sees the grief you are hiding.

It knows the name of the one you lost. The light does not ask you to take the mask off yet.

It just sits with you in the car, in the break room, in the silence between tasks. It is there, holding the space where your child used to be.

You do not have to perform wholeness to be held by God. The light is strong enough to carry both your public face and your private breaking.

Today, you are not alone in the performance. The One who runs is already here, weeping with you behind the eyes you show the world.