The Light Loves the One Hiding

The house is quiet now, and the mask you wore all day feels like it has fused to your skin. You lie here terrified that if anyone ever saw the real you—the exhausted, trembling thing beneath the performance—they would walk away forever.

You have built a fortress so impressive that no one can find the door, and you are alone inside with your act. But the light does not love the fortress.

It loves the person hiding in the basement. Tonight, in the gathering dark, you do not need to perform holiness or strength or even faith.

You only need to be still. The act is heavy, but the truth underneath it is light.

You are not loved for what you show the world. You are loved because you are the place where the light lives.