Running Before The Apology Is Made

The sun is up, and with it comes a clarity that feels like a betrayal. You look at the one you love, see their need, and feel a sudden, sharp resentment rise in your throat.

It makes you want to run, to hide behind the morning light where no one can see the bitterness. But listen — there was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, covered in the filth of his own failures.

He did not calculate the cost. He did not weigh the burden.

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

The light in you is not a resource you manage; it is a spring that wells up from within, endless and unearned. You do not have to manufacture patience for the person beside you.

The love that runs toward the broken is already flowing through you, even when you feel empty. You are not the source; you are the channel.

And the water never runs dry.