Loved

They drive four hours to the location I am at.

Picking me up, their love for me obvious through this action.

How did I deserve such precious love this last year?

Love shown through shared stories,

Though words and gifts--

Through empathy.

I sat, a weakling under accusation,

Ashamed at my state.

She stood up for me:

“If that’s what’s stressing her out, that’s what’s stressing her out!

It’s different for everybody.”

Absolutely humbled.

“I’ve been in the Hospital too,”

He confesses to me with an understanding smile.

“Except it was an overnight hospital, a little different experience.”

I stare aghast at him and his steady, calm composure.

He has been there.

I am not alone. 

The chickadee waltzes by us, tension in his shoulders.

“I love him,” I confess to her. “Look how cute he is—his little wings.”

“God loves you more than you love that little bird,” she replies softy.

I can’t understand this—tears shake from my eyes.

She comes over, in a bathing suit and jeans.

Starting a conversation with me, she sticks her hands in the mud.

She is aiding in a project that is not her own just because 

She can help--and wants to.

Her grandchildren watch from their front lawn.

They invite me to their table and buy me a cream soda.

We talk about roller coasters and jobs--truck driving.

They want to hear my story, and I theirs.

"College, wow! Congrats!" they smile at me, ecstatic.

We sat across from one another on a picnic bench.

It was a warm, fall day in the middle of October, this I remember.

Interacted only once, 

Yet she trusted me with emotions so deep and raw.

She peeked around the aisle.

“Hi. I’m sorry. I heard you and your father talking and

I just wanted to say that I love that you are talking about these deep things.

I used to be addicted to cocaine, but Jesus saved me.

I came here to get a pair of white shoes—and look!

They’re here!”

Standing near the stage, she turns to me and breaks down,

Tears collecting near my shoulder,

The shaking of her brokenness resounding with the music

That dances into our beings from the musicians.

Sitting across from one another

We connect.

Not from the same country,

Or even similar cultures,

But we connect as two human beings

Journeying through life.

She dances in the living room

Punching out her hands in absolute joy in being alive.

Giving this gift to me.

The gift of presence.

"Thank you all for being such a large part of my journey.

Every time I came here, I knew that I was accepted.

Thank you for loving me so well and encouraging me."

I wipe my eyes and walk back to my seat.

People reach out to me in the love that comes with community.

Standing on the stage, I let them all into my journey.

Seeing them in the audience, all of them.

The ones who held me during the rough patches.

Who encouraged me through the droughts.

Loved.

“Happy anniversary,” she says to me,

Handing me a plastic bag with a hand painted gift inside.

It’s not the typical anniversary,

Nor one that others might celebrate.

But it is my story,

A story filled with abundant moments of love.

*  *  *

"Sometimes in the woods I’ll see a wildflower, perhaps one that has just blossomed that morning, and I’ll think: No one has ever laid eyes on this flower before. A strange purity dwells where human eyes have never touched. In the same way, are there not millions of people in the world whom no one has ever seen, whom no eyes have ever touched with deep, pure love? Perhaps we do not need to do anything else for these people except to see them, to notice the. If only we would open our eyes, our hears too would open like flowers and the perfume of good deeds would flow." 
~Mike Mason