You Are The Reason Morning Happened

The sun is up, but your thumb hovers over the delete key. You have written the words, yet you cannot send them, convinced that your need is too heavy a burden for anyone else to carry.

The morning light does not check your worthiness before it touches your face; it simply arrives, unasked and unearned. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — he did not wait for an apology, he did not calculate the cost of the feast, he ran.

Your hesitation tells you that you are an intrusion. But the light running toward you says you are the invitation.

You are not a demand on someone's time; you are the very reason the morning happened.