Psalt for My Wounds – #2 by Michelle Jones

To every sister or brother who has forgotten to care for me, there is One whose thoughts of me number the sands of the sea.  He knows and numbered every hair on my head.  He considered me an eternity before the first one broke the surface of my skin.  So, because He remembers me like that, I can remember to forget your hand against me.  I can choose not to withhold my favor from you, because I have more than enough to spare.

I will lift up my eyes to see the pain in your heart, which does not excuse you, but helps to explain you.  I will know that while I may not have deserved hatred from you, it is certain that I have, at times, hated and harmed others; mistreated, rejected, and ignored them, and then went on with my life without a backward glance.

I elect to remind myself that there are some things I have done to people to protect, comfort, or please myself that they don’t even know about.  That makes me cruel, a coward, and a liar.  Can I really despise you?

To the brothers and sisters who have offended me, welcome to the family.  We are kin.  We have all—more often we know or would like to say—fallen woefully short of loving as we are loved by One who let Himself be killed for our offenses against His Father.  Because of Him, His Father can call me His own.  Because of Him, I have, above all things, a reason to keep holding onto you, and a way to love you as I desire to be loved—AS I AM LOVED.

To any brother or sister who would try to steal my joy, it is not necessary.  I see that I have enough to share.  That and more I offer you freely from my overrunning cup.  Like water through cracks in stony ground, please receive all that I have, and let something green and tender grow up between us.


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