The Light Waits in the Passenger Seat

The car is parked. The engine is off.

And you are practicing a smile in the rearview mirror that you do not feel. It is a small, quiet tragedy to rehearse okayness for people who will not ask if you are actually fine.

You touch the corners of your mouth until they look like joy. But the light does not need your performance.

It is sitting in the passenger seat, in the dark, waiting for you to stop acting. You are so tired of being the person everyone expects.

The mask is heavy. Tonight, the light is not asking you to go in and shine.

It is asking you to sit here, in the silence, and let it see the face behind the smile. You do not have to fix your expression for God.

The Father sees what is done in secret. He knows the weight of the armor you are about to put on.

And He loves the exhausted person staring back from the glass more than the smiling one you are trying to become. The party will happen.

The questions will come. But right now, in this parked car, you are allowed to drop the act.

The light is not afraid of your fatigue. It is not disappointed by your inability to be cheerful.

It is simply present. Waiting.

Not for your performance, but for your honesty. You can take the mask off now.

Even if just for five minutes. Even if just for Him.

The night is deep enough to hold your real face.