This is Love
By Lacy Donaldson
Nine.
Nine, nine, NINE!
Nine times I’ve been here and I still can’t stomach it. I don’t know if it’s the smell, the sounds, or the fact that I’ll never be in their situation. We talk all this talk about our purpose and about life to the full. I get it when it comes to me and my life,
But what about them?
What is their purpose?
The thought that they have to live this life so my eyes can see it,
makes me want to throw up.
You say that you are always working towards our good.
But it’s hard to see the good in this place.
It’s hard to let yourself see anything.
Men with tiny legs are lying on rusted roll-away beds. The mattresses have disappeared, leaving the men to relieve themselves through the creaky springs of those old beds. The drool swoops down, landing in their lap. I crouch down, patting them with my warm hands, thanking God they have shut their eyes, hiding them from my tears.
Sobbing, I can feel you.
You are right behind me, whispering…
This is love.
This is love.
This is love.
I remember the first time I ever visited this place. My eyes had been turned on to a world that only certain hearts are able to see. I made my way around the place, stopping here and there to pat a back, wipe a tear, and calm a shaking soul.
Something is weird here. So much heaven and so much hell. It pounds at your heart.
It just doesn’t seem right, you know? No one should have to live like this, no one…
Women are folded over, hunched and hurting. The smell of week-old urine reeks from under their beds. All of their belongings are safely tucked under their pillows, so no one will steal them in the night. I see feet that don’t look like feet, hands that don’t look like hands. And I still can’t seem to understand.
Who has deformed them?
Who has caused this infliction?
Here is what I want to know:
Why didn’t you pick me?
Why am I just seeing this in front of my eyes?
Why can’t I hurt for them?
Why am I not drooling all over myself and dying with no hope?
I can hear you, you answer me almost immediately.
My Daughter, can’t you understand?
This is love.
This is love.
This is love.
But I cannot. I just can’t grasp what your mind is thinking, what your heart is beating, what you are trying to teach me. I can’t seem to find any peace in my soul. Not here, not in this place. I’m wondering why you would allow this to happen. These are your people. These are hearts and minds that you created.
And then I hear you again, breathing inside of me, saying…
You are right, my darling. How can we allow this to happen? You are my body. You are my hands and my feet. Be my body. Be my hands and be my feet. Wrap yourself up in my skin and show these beloved ones a love that they have never imagined. Touch the insides of their souls with your hands. Coax their hearts to see a better day.
Be my body. Be my hands and be my feet.
I return to the women in the corner, my eyes still filled with tears. Without reluctance, I touch them. I hold their hands and look deep into their beautiful eyes. I sing with them and cry with them. I have them tell me their stories, where they have been and what has led them to this place. Listening to the voices of brokenness, I nod and say to myself…
This is love.
This is love.
This is love.
By Lacy Donaldson
Nine.
Nine, nine, NINE!
Nine times I’ve been here and I still can’t stomach it. I don’t know if it’s the smell, the sounds, or the fact that I’ll never be in their situation. We talk all this talk about our purpose and about life to the full. I get it when it comes to me and my life,
But what about them?
What is their purpose?
The thought that they have to live this life so my eyes can see it,
makes me want to throw up.
You say that you are always working towards our good.
But it’s hard to see the good in this place.
It’s hard to let yourself see anything.
Men with tiny legs are lying on rusted roll-away beds. The mattresses have disappeared, leaving the men to relieve themselves through the creaky springs of those old beds. The drool swoops down, landing in their lap. I crouch down, patting them with my warm hands, thanking God they have shut their eyes, hiding them from my tears.
Sobbing, I can feel you.
You are right behind me, whispering…
This is love.
This is love.
This is love.
I remember the first time I ever visited this place. My eyes had been turned on to a world that only certain hearts are able to see. I made my way around the place, stopping here and there to pat a back, wipe a tear, and calm a shaking soul.
Something is weird here. So much heaven and so much hell. It pounds at your heart.
It just doesn’t seem right, you know? No one should have to live like this, no one…
Women are folded over, hunched and hurting. The smell of week-old urine reeks from under their beds. All of their belongings are safely tucked under their pillows, so no one will steal them in the night. I see feet that don’t look like feet, hands that don’t look like hands. And I still can’t seem to understand.
Who has deformed them?
Who has caused this infliction?
Here is what I want to know:
Why didn’t you pick me?
Why am I just seeing this in front of my eyes?
Why can’t I hurt for them?
Why am I not drooling all over myself and dying with no hope?
I can hear you, you answer me almost immediately.
My Daughter, can’t you understand?
This is love.
This is love.
This is love.
But I cannot. I just can’t grasp what your mind is thinking, what your heart is beating, what you are trying to teach me. I can’t seem to find any peace in my soul. Not here, not in this place. I’m wondering why you would allow this to happen. These are your people. These are hearts and minds that you created.
And then I hear you again, breathing inside of me, saying…
You are right, my darling. How can we allow this to happen? You are my body. You are my hands and my feet. Be my body. Be my hands and be my feet. Wrap yourself up in my skin and show these beloved ones a love that they have never imagined. Touch the insides of their souls with your hands. Coax their hearts to see a better day.
Be my body. Be my hands and be my feet.
I return to the women in the corner, my eyes still filled with tears. Without reluctance, I touch them. I hold their hands and look deep into their beautiful eyes. I sing with them and cry with them. I have them tell me their stories, where they have been and what has led them to this place. Listening to the voices of brokenness, I nod and say to myself…
This is love.
This is love.
This is love.
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