I’ve been thinking a lot lately about masks.
The masks we put on so others will think of us a certain way. And the masks we occasionally lift a bit, allowing them to see the real us. Or the real me, as the case may be.
I have some masks. But I’m continually trying to make them either lighter or more transparent, if I can’t rip it off entirely.
Sure, I’d like everyone to think of me as highly accomplished, successful at whatever I do, living in a clean house with up to date furnishings and decorated just so, with children and grandchildren who always behave just as I want them to, with an adoring husband who showers me with chocolate and diamonds, with a spiritual life so disciplined that I can’t leave the house before spending two hours in deep study and prayer, with a string of best-sellers, with—
Yeah. Enough of that.
The truth.
I rarely clean behind the toilet. Only when company’s coming. My home is furnished mostly with hand-me-downs and inherited furniture. Two pieces in the whole house are things I picked out to suit my taste. My children are independent thinkers who state their own opinions and live their own lives. Sometimes they consult me, but quite often they don’t. My grandchildren – well, they are perfect. Most of the time. Okay, they’re perfectly adorable. And that’s the truth.
My husband and I do love each other, till death us do part, but we also bicker and disagree about some pretty important issues. Like where is the proper place for dirty socks: the hamper or the bedroom floor.
I’m faithful in Bible Study, but sometimes, yes, a whole week goes by and I discover I haven’t even looked at God’s word. This mask is particularly hard to leave off. I want to point out that I’m still memorizing Scripture and doing daily devotional reading. But that’s the urge to stay behind the mask talking.
I’ve tried living behind the mask and it’s exhausting to maintain the façade.
So, yes, I live out loud.
Drop by and you’re liable to find breakfast dishes still in the sink at dinner time. My desk is usually so cluttered I’m the only one who can find anything on it.
When I get frustrated and wish that I lived in a cleaner home or had a nicer office, or could convince someone that tattoos may be pretty now but one day she’ll be sorry, when I’m arguing with my husband about who has more clutter, then I remind myself that it’s not the appearance that’s important.
It’s what is in the heart.
I heard a quote recently: People see what you do; God sees why you do it.
Life’s too short to keep wearing the mask.
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