I sprint away from sunrise,
my breath ragged against the night,
distracted by the noise ahead,
forgetting the voice that calls behind.
Rebellion tastes like salt
and novelty
I am sovereign of my small kingdom,
building castles out of fool’s gold,
drunk on the wine of self-reliance.
The distance feels like victory.
Until silence becomes my cellmate
and I realize
I’m alone in my cardboard kingdom.
How long can you flee from what lives inside your chest?
The return is always harder.
Gravel-biting knees,
pride swallowing itself,
the terrible tenderness of a voice that never stopped calling.
I settle into the warmth again.
Make myself at home in grace.
Let comfort wrap around my shoulders
like a blanket I’d forgotten I owned.
But comfort breeds forgetfulness,
and forgetfulness breeds distance,
and distance breeds the itch
that familiar, restless hunger.
So I run.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The sacred rhythm,
revealed through weathered legs.
Running is prayer in motion.
Returning is the answer.
The chase was never about escape.
It was about discovering that no matter how far I flee,
Love runs faster.
And when I finally turn around,
gasping in the wasteland of my making,
I find footprints beside my own
You were running with me all along.
If you’re trying to make sense of faith and finding your way like the rest of us, let’s walk this path together.