The Morning Does Not Scold You

The sun is up, and with it comes the inventory of all the mornings you missed. The birthdays, the first days of school, the ordinary Tuesdays that slipped away while you were making choices you now wish you could take back.

The grief of lost time is a heavy thing to carry into the dawn. But listen — the light does not scold you for the years that are gone.

It meets you right here, in the regret, and offers a different kind of beginning. There was a man who sat by the shore with a fire burning, and he turned to the one who had failed him most and asked only one thing: do you love me?

He did not ask about the past. He did not demand a ledger of make-ups.

He simply pointed to the children, to the lambs, to the work that still needed doing, and said: feed them. The past is sealed.

The morning is open. The light is not asking you to relive what you missed; it is asking you to show up for what remains.