The Shoulders takes my face in the dark. Traces my leaking eyes. My nose. My chins. We barely speak, but his hands, the language of committed love, etch healing on my skin. He is an artist. I am his canvas, and I lie, a still painting, as he gives his life and his strength to me. He loves as Christ loved the church. Giving all of himself...to me.
He brushes over me breathless. Forgiven. He colors life back into his woman. Paints beauty into every feature. Even that settling weight, and this chin that becomes neck somehow. Even in tenderness, he is strong, and my heart is impossibly healed in the space of hours. This love, surrendered to God, is miraculous. Deeply miraculous.
A mystery,
Bernadette
listening
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