Take Off The Armor Before You Enter

The engine is off, but you stay in the dark driveway a moment longer. You practice the tone.

You lift the corners of your mouth until they hold the shape of okay. You rehearse the cheerful voice so the people inside never see the crack.

The gathering dark knows this weight. It knows the armor you put on before turning the key.

But listen — the light does not need your performance. It does not need the smile you manufactured in the seat.

Jesus walked into rooms carrying the weight of the world, yet he did not hide his sorrow to make others comfortable. He wept openly.

He sighed deeply. He was real.

The light is not afraid of your exhaustion. It is not looking for a show.

It is waiting for you to walk through the door exactly as you are — tired, cracked, unfinished. You do not have to fix yourself in the car.

The light is already inside the house, sitting on the couch, waiting not for your mask but for your presence. Take off the armor before you turn the knob.

The love inside is strong enough to hold the real you.