She Wept
I Pray She Would Laugh
She Wept.
Today was a blessing like no other.
It cost me something to give of myself —
to share my heart and pause my tongue.
She Wept.
To listen to words spoken in anguish,
to allow them into my heart, to share
her pain in a life lived seeking the unattainable.
She Wept.
I listened and sat with her in those quiet,
still minutes ‘tween six and seven —
sipping a too-hot Venti Starbucks coffee.
She Wept.
She was cracked open in my sight like a nut,
sharing her pecan depths with my almond self.
The Lord spoke through me in a way profound.
She Wept.
Unplanned, given in the moment by the Spirit —
it spoke to her childhood pain, unbeknownst
to my hazel eyes, with knowledge only He possessed.
She wept.
Now, long after I left her at her home, I pray
that she might see in herself what You showed me —
and let her light shine like a dazzling morning star.
As I weep for her, for me, for You, and for all of us.
Amen.
This piece finds its companion in To Live is Christ: To Die is Gain — written later that same morning, as revelation followed compassion.
— Dust