Put Down the Words You Rehearse

The afternoon sun is bright, and so is the offer standing at your door. Someone sees you carrying the weight and wants to take it for a while.

But your throat tightens before you can speak. You are already rehearsing the sentence.

The polite refusal. The smooth excuse that keeps the door closed just enough so they cannot see the mess inside.

You practice the words that will keep you safe from being known, and therefore, safe from being hurt again. It feels like wisdom.

It feels like survival. But the light does not need you to be clean before it enters.

It does not require you to fix the room before it sits down. Jesus looked at the crowd and saw them as sheep without a shepherd — harassed and helpless, not polished and perfect.

He did not wait for them to organize their chaos. He had compassion on the mess.

The sentence you are rehearsing is a wall you built to protect a wound that only the light can heal. Put the words down.

You do not have to perform okayness for the one who already knows the cost of your survival. The light is not afraid of your debris.