An affinity for brokenness, she gathers the shattered pieces of glass, reconstructing a brilliant masterwork in the morning light. Crimson drips from a wound punctured by an incongruent shard, pooling on the floor and soaking into the fibers of the kitchen rug. Rust penny stain to mark the spot where she felt. Felt the force of her lungs expanding and deflating, her powerful heartbeat, and her trembling insecurity mixed with righteous strength. Fragile fortitude. A gentleness often corrupted by those with less pure intentions.
She screams. Her bones vibrating with the tragedy. The weight a strong woman carries in radiant beauty is shadowed by the fall. There is little one can do with the indignity. Seen as an object, despite good intentions, will she ever be held for her worth? Consent, always consent. The tightrope stretched taught over the precipice. A fall from this vantage would lead to death.
What will she do with broken people? Is she bound to hurt those she loves most? Is this a self-centric view of the world before her? Is she meant to see others in their perfect imperfectness, love their scars, and pour that love in their grooves and cracks? The true path to healing is to forgive and trust that all sentient beings are trying to do the best they can.
There is definable evil in this world. We dance with the devil we know. Vice warms us by allowing the illusion of comfort to permeate, excusing the path of destruction. The chase of that next dopamine high is elusive.
Gentle the rage. Calm the abuse.
Soft isn’t weak.
Despite the distorted understanding of what lies ahead, she hopes. Grace for herself. Grace for the broken. Grace for the calloused heart of man. She scratches flint to steel – a spark ignites to flame. A banner that calls her more than an object goes before her. She is heralded as a daughter of Eve – Ezer kenegdo – a lifesaver in dire situations. She doesn’t fear the choke of misogyny.
Evening falls quiet. Her lamp is full of oil, and she walks in shadowlands with purpose, a quiver on her back and a bow in her hand. She shelters those in need and protects those that are crushed.
Anger suffers as grief withdraws into the cold pit of a man’s soul. How does one live on this Earth with so much anguish and regret? Grief can split one’s insides. Anger is justified. But, the frigid cold of anger causes a man to suffer, and before he even realizes it, he is changed. He is demanding, cold and unfeeling. His heart shivers from the cold but is not moved. Oh, yes! Anger suffers the soul as it quakes to silence the groaning monster of grief. The aftermath chills to the bone. A cloying crawling place will breed in this festering climate. The rug pulled from under now a blanket to stop the shivering.
Should each moment not be filled to the brim with wonder?
A broken world holds broken people. The rush, rush, rushing. The sickness. The heartache.
Here comes the morning, Glory. She holds a sliver of promise that breaks wide and covers even the darkest recesses. She hums with the birdsong. Their cadence carries amidst unclothed nature; the narration whispers ancient tales of wondrous adventures and great allure. The air is crisp as the soft crunch, and scuttle of woodland creatures abounds.
A down coat and homespun mittens replace the insecurity blanket. A hint of woodsmoke and meadowsweet soothes the air. Tension begins to leave atrophied limbs, and life expands desiccated lungs. The landscape births a red stone cottage. Shades of blue, purple, gold, and aqua stained glass contrast the bleeding stone. Three words are hewn on its edifice….”I was glad.” Who etched these words? Why? And what manner of mystery is this? “I was glad!” A light breeze weeps sunlight through the leaves and reflects off the colored glass. How to describe a thought or feeling?
To hope is to grasp the eternal thread that holds us all – a three cord strand is not easily broken. We are on the other side of utopia. Our companions, suffering and sorrow, carve out territory for a heart of flesh that replaces stone. We are refined in the blaze. Incandescence. Each of us Turkish lamps creating intricate light mosaics on those that cross our path.
The weight we carry is heavy. The weight we carry makes us able. The weight we carry is the love. The weight of Jehovah-Rohi’s love carries no burden. It fills us with light and joy. The weight we carry is life.
Reflection of Providence 