I am not perfect.
I muddle, I trip, I fall.
My imperfections are obvious to the
one I call mine.
He strives to overcome
the struggles that are uniquely his,
while I trip over the hurdles in my own life.
We are sometimes impatient with the progress
that the other is not making.
I see the mud on you, I see the skinned knee,
I see your bowed head.
But I don’t really see it.
Because I still ask you to jump up and
do this, accomplish that and say,
“Why aren’t you at the finish line already?”
But if I really stopped to see you –
if I stopped to hold your heart and
not be consumed with our place in the race
then I would notice
that there is
mud all over me,
I am bleeding
and I can’t lift my head.
If I stopped to hold your heart
I would wipe the mud off of your face.
And then you would see that I am bleeding
and you would put salve on my wounds.
You would lift my head and
I would take your hand
and we would
be a team
pursuing each other
and the finish line,