If you measured my life by low points and high, all my loves and jealousies recorded as scripture of extremes,
you’d miss times of stillness, daily cycles when I fed and clothed, cleansed and smoothed out roughness.
You wouldn’t see the hours I bore with wounds one can’t ask friends to fast and pray for because there is no cure for life,
no dramatic rescue for one merely stuck in everyday mud. But maybe you don’t need to feel the weight of all this water
underneath each cresting wave. Maybe there is truth enough to glean from spare detail and beauty enough at the edges
to sketch a face with tender eyes that you can be pleased with, as though you had returned from a long journey and seen the face of God.