For twenty-seven minutes he held my hand.
Fascinated at the lightness of my skin against his.
Inspecting every scar-
tracing every vein.
We're made of the same stuff-
he and I.
Both of us-
part mother, part father,
part grace, part hope,
part hurt, part scars.
I've lived a little longer,
he's lived a little colder.
His eyes are dark-
filled with equal wonder and knowing.
Mine are baby blues-
sensitive and filled with tears.
always filled with tears
My hand covers his-
protecting it.
His fills mine.
His skin is rough-
worn with too much experience for his age.
Mine is embarrassingly soft-
but the gentleness he needs in this moment.
Maybe it's the gypsy in him-
and the gypsy spirit in me.
Or the longing to be held-
or seen-
or heard.
Or the love of Singin' in the Rain
and dancing-
and laughing.
But I propose, it's something greater.
Something more eternal-
making us the same.
A deep calling out to deep.
A twenty-seven minute education-
on the Body of Christ.
A twenty-seven minute illustration-
of provision.
We're made of the same stuff-
he and I,
and you and me,
and for that, I give thanks.
