The Light Knows Your Words Before You Speak

The water is loud tonight because it has to be. It drowns out the sound of a voice you have practiced a thousand times, shaking in the steam, terrified that the truth will crack open the moment the faucet turns off.

You are rehearsing for a world that might not understand, but the light already knows the words before you speak them. There is a Father who saw you coming from a long way off — not waiting for the perfect speech, not requiring the apology to be finished — who ran to meet you before you even reached the door.

The water masks your sobs, but it cannot hide you from the one who runs toward your trembling. The light does not need you to be brave; it only needs you to be real.

You are not practicing to be loved; you are practicing to be known.