The Father Runs Before You Speak

The water is still running, but you have stopped speaking. You know the words you rehearsed will turn to ash the moment you see their face.

That silence you feel rising in your throat is not failure. It is the noise of the performance ending.

There was a man who stood a long way off, dirty and broken, planning a speech he thought he had to deliver to be worthy of home. But while he was still rehearsing the apology, the father saw him.

And the father ran. Before the first syllable could be spoken, before the script could fail, the arms were already around him.

You do not need to get the words right. The light does not wait for your perfect explanation to meet you.

It meets you in the stutter. It meets you in the silence.

The love you are trying to earn with your speech has already run out to find you.