The Light Lives in Your Cracks

The mask is heavy this morning, especially when small hands reach up to touch a face that is smiling while the eyes are drowning. You force the corners of your mouth up, terrified they will see the failure you are hiding behind the performance.

But the light does not live in the plastic grin you wear for the world—it lives in the crack where the tears leak through. There was a woman who had been bleeding for twelve years, untouchable and exhausted, who reached out just to touch the edge of a cloak.

She did not need to be clean first. She did not need to explain her shame.

The light felt the touch and stopped the entire crowd to call her daughter. Your child sees more than your mask—they see the light that refuses to leave you even in your brokenness.

You do not have to fix your face before you are loved.