The Light Sitting on Your Bathmat

The lock clicks, and the world outside keeps moving while you slide down to the floor. You hold your breath so the sound of your breaking doesn't leak under the door.

You wear the face they expect in the hallway, but here, in the cold tile silence, you are just tired. The mask is heavy, and your arms are shaking from holding it up.

But the light does not need you to open the door to be with you. It is already sitting on the bathmat, in the quiet, seeing the tears you think you have to hide.

You do not have to perform okayness for the One who knelt in the dust to wash feet. The truth you are hiding is the very thing the light came to hold.

You are not alone in this small room. The Father sees what is done in secret, and he does not look away in disappointment—he leans in closer.

The mask was never meant to fit this tightly.