You Do Not Have to Be Finished

The key turns in the lock, and the mask you spent the day building is still wet clay. You hear the handle drop, and panic rises because the version of you that can survive dinner isn't ready yet.

But the light does not wait for the performance to be perfect before it enters the room. It came for the sick, not the well — for the ones who are still under construction.

You do not have to be finished to be loved. You do not have to be strong to be held.

The Father sees the raw edges and the trembling hands, and he calls you friend anyway. The gathering dark is not a verdict on your inadequacy; it is simply the place where you stop pretending and start being known.