Loved Before the Cleanup Begins

The words hang in the air, heavy and bright, while you stand there feeling like a fraud who has tricked someone into staying. You wait for them to see the cracks, to realize they loved a mask, to turn and walk away from the mess underneath.

But the light does not love illusions. It loves what is real.

The Father ran to his son while he was still covered in the filth of the pig pen — before the apology, before the cleanup, before the promise to do better. He did not run to the version of the son that looked presentable.

He ran to the one who was broken. If the light loves you in your deepest fraudulence, then the person standing before you is not loving a trick.

They are loving the truth you are too afraid to show. The love is not a mistake.

Your fear is.