The Hand That Runs to Broken Places

The sun is going down, and the armor you wore all day finally hits the floor. You are safe now, but the silence brings a specific ghost—the phantom weight of a hand that never touched you.

You kept the crack hidden because you were sure that if they saw the break, they would walk away. So you held your breath.

You held your ground. And the hand remained suspended in the air, waiting for an invitation you were too afraid to give.

But listen. The light does not wait for you to be whole before it reaches out.

It reaches for the broken places specifically. The Father saw you while you were still a long way off, covered in the dust of your own hiding, and he did not wait for you to fix yourself.

He ran. He ran to meet you before you could even stumble home.

The touch you fear is the very thing that heals. The hand is not withdrawn in judgment.

It is waiting for you to stop holding your breath.