Secrets

There’s a window.

Not the kind you open to let air in,
but the kind you stare through.

It’s the pane that holds what you know about yourself
but hope no one else ever sees.

Thoughts you edit.
Emotions you mute.
Stories you retell—minus the messy parts.

Secrets.

And here’s the paradox:
we work so hard to hide them,
but they’re quietly shaping us.

“You’re only as strong as your secrets.” – Chris Hodges

We all have them.
Places we’d rather keep in the dark.
Corners we wallpaper over with smiles and “I’m fine” and spiritual-sounding answers.

But authenticity can’t survive where hiding thrives.

You can’t be fully known
while carefully curating what’s seen.

And people—church people especially—
can stay sick for years
not because they don’t love God,
but because they won’t tell the truth.

The truth about the marriage.
The addiction.
The bitterness.
The fear.
The shame.

We know this.
And still… we struggle.

So we wear masks.
Well-crafted ones.
Responsible ones.
Christian ones.

Because masks feel safe.

But the enemy knows something we often forget:
real transformation always happens here—
in this window,
in this vulnerable space.

So he doesn’t just attack beliefs.
He attacks relationships.

He whispers comparison.
He fuels self-protection.
He convinces us to put ourselves first—
to defend, to justify, to withdraw.

Because isolation is easier than exposure.
And hiding feels smarter than healing.

The enemy would much rather you stay guarded
than risk the kind of honesty
that connects hearts,
forgives offenses,
and heals wounds.

This is where the real work is.

Not pretending to be better.
But letting others see where you’re not.

Letting someone in on the struggle.
The burden.
The wound you’ve been carrying alone.

Because when you stop hiding,
something holy happens.

You discover you’re not the only one.

C. S. Lewis nailed it when he said friendship is born in that moment when one person looks at another and says,
“What! You too? I thought I was the only one.”

That’s the moment masks fall.
That’s the moment connection begins.

And honesty is contagious.

When one person risks being known,
it gives everyone else permission
to exhale.

In authentic relationships,
we can tell the truth about our fears.
We can name our secrets.
We can talk about shame—without being defined by it.

And accountability stops feeling like surveillance
and starts feeling like care.

Because someone is watching over your soul,
not to control you,
but to remind you who you are
and who you’re becoming.

Scripture doesn’t tiptoe around this.

“Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed.” (James 5:16)

Notice the order.
Confession.
Prayer.
Healing.

Not alone.
Together.

Grace often comes to us
through other people.

And prayer keeps the connection alive.

There’s this beautiful image of a man named Epaphras—
described as someone who was always wrestling in prayer for others.

Not casually mentioning them.
Wrestling.

Praying so they would stand firm.
So they would grow up.
So they would be fully assured of God’s will.

That’s what authentic community does.
It fights for each other in the open.
No masks.
No pretending.

So maybe the invitation is simple—and terrifying:

What if the place you’re hiding
is the place God wants to heal?

What if the strength you’re looking for
is on the other side of telling the truth?

You’re only as strong as your secrets.

And freedom begins
the moment you stop protecting them.

Inspiration Note

Inspired by pages 140–142 of Jesus the High Road Leader by John Maxwell and Chris Hodges, currently being studied by our elders and deacons at Farmington Baptist Church.