Running Before the Apology Is Made

The mask is heavy this morning. It feels like plaster hardening over your face while you sit across from your child, who asks a question about God that you cannot answer.

You feel the panic rise—the fear that your silence will shatter their faith, or worse, reveal that you have none left yourself. But listen.

The light does not require you to be a theologian for your own children. It only requires you to be present.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He did not wait for a perfect speech.

He ran. Before the apology, before the explanation—he ran.

Your inability to answer is not a failure. It is an invitation to run toward the mystery together.

You do not need to carry the weight of every truth. The truth lives inside you, and it lives inside them.

When you say 'I don't know, but let's find out,' you are not losing authority. You are modeling the only faith that matters: the courage to seek without pretending to possess.

The light is not in your answer. It is in the space between your question and theirs.