She hugs me (a difficult story of me asking hard questions while embracing soft hugs)

The hands, the dirty hands, grab at my heart and pull.
I feel like pulling away, like smacking the dirty hands away and running.
But then I make eye contact with the eyes that belong to the dirty hands
And it's my sister.
She tells me nothing, she just hugs me.

But I cannot breath.
Because my sister's hug, her dance, her cooking, and her nervous laugh
tell two stories.
One is the story of a little ballerina, free to pick the flowers, free to jump into her dad's arms.
Another is a story of her left alone in the field, where even the trees scream "WHORE!"

My sister's hug, with her dirty hands, is suffocating.
Her hands pull at my heart
and it hurts.
But if I smack her hands away and run, in order to breathe as easily as I did before,
then I reject her hug.
And I will have to run forever to forget her tears.

If I stay in her soft embrace,
Then I have to accept her two stories. Two stories that don't make sense.

If I continue to love the one I see as the precious dancer in the pink dress,
then I have to accept that the dirty hands who touched her
will pull me apart too.

Can I stand in the field with her, with my ballerina, while the trees scream
"WHORE!"?
Even if I never forget her tears? Even if I forever here the accusations?
Even if my heart never beats quiet the same again?

Heavy, I look again at the field,
But this time I see someone. Someone else standing in the field.
At him, the trees are screaming, "WHORE!"
but he is silent.
"WORTHLESS, WRETCH!" they cry.
But he doesn't answer.
instead, he cries.

Confused, I look at my sister,
But she cannot see him in the field.
And she cannot see the hands.
Because the hands, the dirty hands, that are pulling me into the field
are not hers.
They are his.

And these hands, these dirty hands bidding me into the field,
they plead with me:
If you stay, if you endure the loneliness of the field with her,
then she will see.
Then she will see me here.

The hands promise me it will hurt.
The hands promise to embrace us both.

I gasp for air.

I go with her.

And I see that the hands are not dirty.
They are scarred.



how marvelous, how wonderful, as my song will ever be
how marvelous, how wonderful is my savior's love for me.