Masks

Journal for Christa,

Masks
When people look into my face,
I wonder who they see—
Is it the person of my heart
Or masks made out of clay?

How many masks will I wear
Today, tomorrow and the next—
To hide my weakness and my fears
To please mere vessels made of clay?

And when the masks are all undone,
I see that I am weak—
And need the Potter’s gentle thumb
To mark this heart in His own way.

So let the masks fall from my face
And let me be just who I am—
To stand before them unashamed
Of what the Potter does with clay.
Deb Borkert ©

A frequent theme in literature is the discrepancy between appearance and reality. Like in literature how rarely do people actually see us for who we are. People look happy when they’re sad; nonchalant while burdened down; somber when nothing is really wrong. We all, to varying degrees, wear a mask. We want people to think better of us than what we really are. We would melt in shame if every thoughtless thought was revealed for all to see.

Then, some struggles are neither necessary nor appropriate to express to every casual acquaintance. Yet, I wonder, how often we purposefully construct a facade, leading others to think we’re someone we aren’t, fooling others and ourselves alike. Perhaps it’s time to peek under that mask and see who’s really under there.