Leave the mask in the car

The engine is off, but the silence is loud. You are sitting in the driveway, hand on the door handle, terrified to walk inside and put the mask back on.

The house expects a version of you that you do not feel like being tonight. But listen — the light does not live in the performance you are about to give.

It lives in the exhaustion you are trying to hide. Jesus once looked at a woman who thought she was defined by her failures and said, 'Your great love has shown.' He did not ask for her composure.

He saw her tears and called it faith. You do not have to earn your place at the table by pretending to be whole.

The One who knows everything about this day is already inside, waiting not for your act, but for your arrival. You are allowed to walk through that door exactly as you are — tired, unraveling, real.

The mask is heavy; you can put it down.