Sometimes all I can see of my heart is red.
Red for the bleeding, the breaking, the pain. Red for the sorrow, the wonder at the way I’m wired. It takes a lot to hold out my heart. To bleed for others, their hopes, their suffering, a relentless concern for those who repeatedly break me open. How can I possibly continue to pour myself into the lives of those who keep brushing mine away?
I don’t know how to live any other way. Is there beauty in this broken? Is there purity in the pain? Is there a white shawl of grace for my upended heart?
I hold out my heart to a man who came to me unexpected, to patch apparently more than my kitchen ceiling, but my broken heart as well. My loyalty-induced DNA and mercy makeup keep me on my knees, grateful at the unexpected gift, feeling every aspect of both our healings as we receive God’s pure, patient, gentle, selfless love again and again. As we give, we receive tenfold, my heart expanding to sizes I never expected it to reach. I love without end.
Who will hold me when my heart lies burdened and expanded? Am I enough?
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