The Light Sees You Before the Mask

The shower water is loud, but not loud enough to drown out the script you are writing for Monday morning. You rehearse the casual anecdote about your weekend, polishing the edges so no one sees the hollow ache underneath.

You practice the smile. The tone.

The performance of being okay. It is exhausting to carry a mask that heavy through the middle of the day.

But the light does not need your script. It saw you in the bathroom mirror before you put the face on.

It knows the weekend was hard. There was a man who carried his son to the light because the boy was tormented, and the father cried out, 'I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief.' He did not have a perfect story.

He had a broken child and a trembling voice. And the light healed them both.

You do not have to convince your coworkers that you are whole to be held by the light. The mask is for them.

The truth is for you. The light is already inside the silence you are trying to hide.