H A N D S

I found myself stuck on the subject of disbelief. Not mine. His.


For so long I’d carried a false confidence that was fed by others who believed in me and believed that anything I said was true.

Until him. Until his words showed he didn’t believe my love was true no matter how many words I used.

It was here my confidence revealed itself to me as false and also where forgiveness became a challenge to a forgiveness expert.

It took work to accept that my love might mean little to nothing to someone that had been imprinted on my living heart.

It took more work to step back from my emotions and realize that my love was unchangeable by outside influences. It wasn’t a FedEx package that required an adult to sign for before receiving. It wasn’t a flag that had waved too long in the sun before succumbing to half-mast and retirement. It didn’t need to travel thousands of miles through wind, rain and snow to find its owners scent and direction home.

It was a gift with no age restrictions. It would not fade or be put to death. It never lost sight of its target. It was inside of me, in fact was me and in that realization I learned that love was not about me and that what I thought needed forgiving required none.

There is a ripple effect to love that does not need to be seen to maintain the power to warm, heal, encourage and inspire.

Yet and still I listen and watch for signs or confirmation that our hearts are as united as I feel because my faith is still in need of work.

In fact, the whole of me is in need of work but a toolbox has always been part of my wardrobe just as much as it is part of his.

Once upon a time in study of one another we showed up here daily but now we come only in support, our words or likes having become that restless hand that reaches out in the middle of the night to touch their partners body as if to say “I’m here. Rest your heart. Rest your mind. I’m with you.”

Time on Earth gets a bit shorter each day as restful sleep continues to elude me. On April 4th I woke up to turn on and check my phone at 4:44 am and at that exact moment received a ‘like’ on one of my posts by a faithful follower. My restless hand. His.

A work of art is so loved by the artist in all of its phases such that when the world prays to the finished piece only the artist knows the depth of love that causes them to bow their heads.

When recognizing the natural mold of our souls we learn that our hearts don’t need to go through the fire to be appreciated because we are simultaneously dross and gloss, forever in the making and at each stage a worthy beauty to behold and love.