Resting on the Tile Floor With God

The water is loud enough to hide the sound of your own breaking. You stand there letting it hit you, because it is the only place where the mask can slip without anyone seeing the crack.

The world expects you to be whole by nine, productive by ten, and smiling by noon. But behind the closed door, the performance feels too heavy to lift again.

You are not hiding from the light; you are hiding from the eyes that expect you to be okay. But the light does not need your performance.

It sees the exhaustion behind the smile you haven't put on yet. It knows the weight you carried into the bathroom this morning.

The Father's love is not a demand for you to straighten up and walk out ready. It is the quiet presence that sits with you on the tile floor while the water runs cold.

You do not have to fix yourself before you open the door. The light is already there, waiting not for your mask, but for your rest.