You Do Not Have to Be Okay

The clock reads two in the afternoon, and the question lands softly on your desk: 'Are you okay?' Your mouth moves before your heart can answer. 'I'm fine,' you say.

The lie is practiced, smooth, a shield you forged years ago to keep from being fired from the human race. You swallow the truth because admitting the crack feels like signing your own eviction notice.

But the light does not evict the broken. It dwells in the middle of the mess.

Jesus sat with friends in the long heat of the day, not to inspect their performance, but to share their bread. He knows the weight of the mask you wear when the sun is high.

The lie protects you from people, but it hides you from the One who already sees the tremor in your hands. You do not have to be okay to be held.

The light is not looking for a flawless report. It is looking for you, right here in the exhausting middle, still standing even though you feel like dust.

The door is not locked from the inside; you are just too tired to turn the handle. Stop trying to prove you belong.

You were placed here on purpose.