Known in the Steam Before You Speak

The water is running loud enough to hide the crack in your voice. You are standing in the small room, rehearsing the one word you will say when you walk out to the table: 'Fine.' It is a heavy costume to put on when your shoulders are already tired from holding up the day.

But notice—the light does not ask you to take off the mask before it loves you. It stands right there in the steam, in the noise, in the quiet trembling of your hands.

You do not have to perform okayness for the one who knows exactly how much weight you are carrying. The Father sees the rehearsal.

He sees the exhaustion behind the eyes you are about to paste on. And he is not waiting for a perfect performance; he is waiting for you to come sit down, exactly as you are.

The water will stop. The mask will feel lighter tomorrow.

But for tonight, you are known in the bathroom just as fully as you are known at the table.