The Mask of Faith
Shakespeare wrote that life is a stage. He wasn’t wrong. We all play our parts. Not all productions run smoothly. Grief is the savage disruptor of a masked life. There is nothing more difficult than sitting with loss and knowing you will never get back the very thing that gave your life joy and meaning.
I was born and raised Christian. I did not realize how curated my life was until tragedy struck. Up to that point, I was content with the course laid out before me. The rules were simple and familiar: marriage, family, God.
There was no Plan B.
I did not hit a bump in the road. I hit a boulder. My marriage was a certified mess. My husband had a plan for his future that did not include me, and I was completely blindsided. The mask crumbled.
I was in my early forties, and my identity felt settled. I was a pastor’s wife, a committed Christian, a musician, an educator. I did not understand the first thing about God. That was the truth.
My life had been blessed. If I worked hard enough, I could make things happen. I believed that was how life worked.
Until it didn’t.
Even as my marriage unraveled, I still wanted one. I wanted my children to have a father at home. I wanted what I had built to remain intact. Wanting did nothing.
Who was I when I did not get what I wanted?
I found out. I was a disaster. I could not think clearly. My mind filled with intrusive thoughts. When my thoughts settled, my body revolted. Headaches and stomachaches became my new normal.
I lost friends. When tragedy strikes, people often back away from the disaster zone. I had done it myself when it happened to others. Now it was my turn. Without the mask, people did not know what to do with me. I was too raw, too real to fit comfortably into anyone’s production.
I came before God in a way I never had before. Raw. Bruised. Honest. It was the first time I sat in silence without having anything to say. I used to pray for wisdom, for protection, for the people I loved. There were no words. Only stillness. Only God seeing me as I was.
Ashamed. Broken. And somehow, still loved.
Letting God see me was the first time I understood He could love me as I was. Not the polished Christian version of myself. Not the woman with the mask. The real one.
Real intimacy with God, and with other people, does not begin when we perfect ourselves. It begins when we stop pretending. As long as we are still wearing a mask, we are performing. We are not living in grace.
Grace meets us where the mask falls.
