The Light Sees Your Trembling Hands

The footsteps are coming up the walk, and your hands are still shaking from the night. You rush to wipe the exhaustion from your face, to smooth the mask back into place before the door handle turns.

But the light does not need you to be composed. It does not require the performance to be flawless before it enters.

There is a story of a man born blind, not because of sin, but so that the works of God might be displayed in him. Your fatigue is not a failure; it is the canvas.

You do not have to hide the cracks to be held. The light sees the tremor in your hands and calls it holy ground.

Stop scrubbing. Let them see the tired eyes.

The mask was never the point.