I close my eyes to write something, anything.
In the background, I hear Country Man singing Crazy Girl by the Eli Young Band.
My eyebrow raises in wonderment to why it is he always sings that song. But he smiles as he sings, so I know.
Lately this soul garden of mine has been taking root, like a fig tree in early spring. It stings something strange yet distantly familiar, but I am thankful. A person can go a lifetime without tending to this garden, in fear of that unknown pain. But like the fig tree, a soul needs proper care to grow, produce fruit.
When a soul is flocked with ugly, there is pain. I’ve seen a lot in my line of work, and I ask, how do I redeem it?
I’ve seen the broken steps that lead to the broken homes, filled with mean dogs and mean mommas and long-gone fathers, children with searching eyes and desperate souls, longing to fill it and will most likely fill it with the available ugly in life.
I want to hold their head to my chest and rock them, tell them that on the other side of heaven, grace abounds and beauty is eternal. Love is the only language spoken, the only one known.
The ugly in me wanted to take revenge on those who caused scars to our precious, to write them off as if they have no value at all. To cast them away, far far away. To mark them with a scarlet, no black, letter. Scarlet seemed to good for them.
But now, I know, know, know, forgiveness is the only answer, the only way to make a difference. It heals. It refreshes. I have experienced it and can now look at people through new eyes. To see the legacies of their ugly, and now it’s their turn.
When the ugly is overcome, it’s like leaving the windows open on a sunshine spring day, a light breeze blowing the thin dancing curtains, and your beloveds arms wrap gently around a soul free while swaying to the sound of a familiar melody…
Crazy girl, don’t you know that I love you? Silly woman, come here, let me hold you…