You Are Loved For Telling It

The steam rises in the shower, a white curtain where you rehearse the lie. "I'm fine," you say to the tiles, practicing the tone until it sounds flat enough to be believed.

You are building a mask so sturdy it might suffocate you before noon comes. But the light does not need your performance to find you.

It sees the tremor in your hands while you towel off. It knows the weight of the armor you are strapping on.

Jesus sat at a table with people who were terrified of being found out, and he called them friends anyway. He did not ask for a flawless report.

He asked for presence. The mask is heavy, but you do not have to wear it for the One who sees behind your eyes.

You are not loved for the story you tell. You are loved because you are the one telling it.