The Light Runs to Meet You

The sun is up, but the shadow of your words from last night is still stretching across the floor. You are afraid that if you speak, if you try to say you are sorry, you will only prove their fear right—that you are too much, too broken, too dangerous to be near.

So you sit in the silence, holding your breath, convinced that your presence is the problem. But look at the light coming through the window.

It does not check your record before it enters the room. It does not weigh your past mistakes against your right to exist.

It simply arrives. The Father who saw you while you were still a long way off did not wait for a perfect speech.

He ran. Your apology is not a test you must pass to earn safety.

It is simply the sound of you turning around. And the light does not run from the one who turns.

It runs to meet them.