An incredible weight rests on her shoulders. Once a moving, unstoppable force, she seems sluggish, tired, weary. Her bones ache. She sighs and no one listens. She is supposed to love herself and she knows that; but she just can't right now. There are too many things to hate. Like the way that one small mole has grown up on her arm; the fact that she's lost weight in one area, but it's shown up in another. Her heart is heavy, wishing that more children could join her fold, but as one arm extends, the other is jerked back, afraid of what might happen if she truly gave herself fully for those she knew were lost.
She wants to do the right thing, and most of her knows what the right thing is; but these days, it just seems like her limbs are at war with one another, her right hand not quite knowing what the left hand is doing, but dearly wanting to slap it into submission. Conflicted, tormented, she waits, knowing that one day, He will come.
And He will come. She knows that. Time and time again, He has come. She wrestles with the fact that there will always, until He returns for good, be that srange knowledge that He is here with her, holding her, sometimes directing stubborn limbs to do what He wants them to do, binding up wounds and lancing out infections, but soon He will be here for good. It is then that she knows that her limbs will live at peace with one another, in joyful service.
There are times when her heart sings with joy, watching as the lost ones find their way to her doors. She would enfold all those who would come. There are times when she weeps, watching as some leave home, thinking they can do it on their own. There is uncontrollable weeping when some are pushed out - when a finger decides to say to a toe, "I don't need you." Sometimes it feels like the damage is irreparable.
But she keeps moving. She cannot stop. If she stops, she dies. It is bad enough that her parts are at war with one another. She thinks about the persecution from the outside - if only they could see. If only they could know what is in her heart and on her mind. She loves those who persecute her too. She will not stop. She cannot stop. She can only hope that as a bride, she is lovely enough to entice others to follow. Some are repulsed by the way that her clothes have been washed. Some are burned by the light that is within her. Some are changed for good; some simply burn.
And still she walks.
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