Leave the mask on the seat

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 world expects you to be okay the moment you cross the threshold. But the light does not need your performance.

It does not need you to pretend the weight isn't there. There was a man born blind, and the people around him cared only about who was to blame for his darkness.

They wanted a reason. Jesus cared only about the work of God being displayed in him.

Your exhaustion is not a failure. It is the canvas.

You do not have to explain your fatigue to the light. It already sees the tears you are holding back.

It knows the cost of the smile you are about to wear. You are not required to be strong before you enter.

You are only required to be real. The mask can wait on the seat beside you.

Walk in as you are — tired, quiet, undone. The light is already inside the house, waiting not for your act, but for your arrival.