He Runs to Meet Your Mess

The stall door is locked, and you are pressing your forehead against the cold metal so no one hears you break. You think if they saw the wetness on your face, they would turn away.

But the light does not turn away from tears—it was born in them. There is a father who saw his son while he was still covered in the filth of the pig pen, still rehearsing his shame, and he did not wait for the cleanup.

He ran. He ran to meet the mess before the apology could even be formed.

You do not have to dry your face to be held. The One who knows every hair on your head knows the exact saltiness of this tear.

You are not hiding from the light; you are hiding in the very place it is already waiting to find you. The lock on the door keeps the world out, but it cannot keep the love out.