The Light Sees You Behind The Mask

The noise of the room is loud, but the silence inside you is louder. You are surrounded by voices, yet you feel like a ghost haunting your own life.

The armor you wore all day—the smiles, the nods, the performance of being okay—is finally heavy enough to break your shoulders. You want to put it down, but you are afraid that if you stop moving, the isolation will swallow you whole.

There was a man named Zacchaeus who climbed a tree just to see, hidden in the leaves while a crowd pressed below. He was small, despised, and utterly alone in the middle of hundreds.

Jesus stopped. He did not wait for the crowd to clear.

He looked up through the branches, called him by name, and said: I must stay at your house today. The light does not need the crowd to move before it sees you.

It sees you in the tree. It sees you in the corner.

It sees you behind the mask. You are not invisible to the one who knows your name.

The light is already pulling up a chair at your table. The room is crowded, but you are not alone.