The Light Sees You in the Dark

The mask feels heavy right now. You are terrified that if you stop performing joy, the people who love you will see the emptiness beneath and walk away.

So you keep smiling. You keep the lights on.

But in this hour, the performance is too exhausting to sustain. There was a woman who had bled for twelve years, unseen and untouchable, who reached out from the crowd just to touch the edge of a garment.

She did not need to be whole to be held. She only needed to reach.

Jesus stopped. He turned.

He called her daughter before she could explain herself. The light does not love the performance.

It loves the person underneath it. You do not have to manufacture brightness for the light to find you.

It sees you in the dark. It sees you when you are empty.

And it calls you by name.