This path is always there, no matter how many times we trip, fall, or wander too far into the woods of our own making. It does not vanish when we lose our way. It waits.
He is always there.
Not exasperated. Not withdrawn. Simply present. Stepping forward into the clearing again and again, as though it were the first time. His hand remains open, not as a demand but as an invitation. There is no tally kept in the trees, no record etched into the bark. Only light. Only the quiet courage of mercy offered once more.
I wanted that constancy to be felt. The steady reach. The patience that does not thin. The kind of love that stands in the same place every time we circle back, brushing the dust from our knees, surprised to find Him there.
The path is not earned. It is remembered.
And His hand is still extended.
