The Light Runs Before You Speak

You walk through the morning wearing a face that says you are fine, while inside you are convinced there is no way back. Because they will not say the words you need to hear, you have decided you are finished.

You believe their silence is the final verdict on your soul. But the light sees behind the mask you wear for the world, and it does not agree with the sentence you have passed on yourself.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — before the apology, before the speech, before any promise of change — he ran. The light does not wait for the other person to grant you permission to be whole.

It runs to you while you are still rehearsing your shame. Your worth is not held hostage by another human being's inability to forgive.

The light has already spoken your name, and it calls you beloved.