The View From The Top Is Lonely

The house is quiet now that the work is done. You climbed the mountain you set out to conquer, only to find the view from the top feels exactly like the view from the bottom.

The mask you wore to get here—the one that smiled at the applause, the one that said 'I'm fine' while dying inside—has fused to your skin. You are standing in the center of your achievement, and you have never felt more alone.

The light does not ask you to perform another miracle. It does not need your resume or your trophy case.

It leans in close, past the noise of the crowd that has already left, and whispers the only thing that matters: 'Go home to your own people and tell them how much the Lord has done for you.' The success was never the point. The point was the one who walked with you through the fire.

You do not have to keep proving you are worthy of the breath in your lungs. The light is not impressed by your climb.

It is simply waiting for you to take the mask off and be held.