Dear God, you see through me. You tear through my outer covering, my shell, as if it were tissue. My interior is so flawed yet you persist in loving me. You do not even ask me to change. You adore this lump of a human without condition.
And yet I dress myself up in self-delusion. Observing my interior, some days I despise whom I see, other days I am so proud of my piety. I gild my exterior, and I imagine you look on bemused.
All illusion. You see the truth and the truth is that I am your child, small and needing your love. Trembling in the cold rain. You wrap me in your warm arms. I need but feel them.
My fellows are equally needy. So small. You have graced me with awareness of your love for us shivering, frightened children. Let me tell others of this, nudging them and sharing the warmth you have inserted into my heart.
Let me share the good news: we inhabit a world of illusion. We are loved.