On that street –
the one with the busy cars, the summer breeze drifting around, the storm clouds simmering in the distance –
she prays as she walks.
Her words are a caress, a salve to the sting of words that have made their way into your heart. The more I mark my days the more I see how words build up,
and oh, how they tear down.
And there are times when those words somersault across the field and bruise the very pieces of our heart we hold out willingly.
And until those prayers over that heart, and those words, find their way to you in the middle of that street,
you don’t even realize how you’d written them into your identity. How they’d shaken you to the core. How they’d minimized your worth, your value,
The words are an attack on the very Image you bear.
And He weeps with you, oh how He weeps with you. The One who knit you together, who knows the hairs on your head –
oh how He weeps, too.
The One who’s thoughts are precious towards you –
precious. Gentle, soft, kind. Just like that prayer. Just like her words. Salve to a heartache.
And so she prays as she walks, and there, on that street in the middle of this city, you meet the One who’s thoughts towards you are precious.