I remembered that evening, sitting across from you, my hands spread wide on the tabletop, words tumbling from my lips like a waterfall I was helpless to stop. I didn't want to tell you everything I was spilling out; I didn't want you to know the depths of weakness and fear and hopelessness that dwelt within my heart. I was ashamed, and naked, and cut to the barest bones of my soul.
You circled my wrist with your thumb and finger, and the strength of your grip told me that you were real and solid. You didn't tell me to stop being childish (a valid point), and you didn't mock me (an understandable choice). Instead, you held my gaze and let me see into your heart. You told me that my feelings were okay . . . but they were just feelings.
You showed me the image of God.
You gave me hope.
It occurred to me, tonight, that hope is the one thing I most want to give to those around me. And I thought of you, and that night when you held out hope to me by presenting the truth that nestled within your heart. I knew, suddenly, that the one and only way I can ever offer hope is to offer truth, for it is truth that sets us free.
To speak truth, I have to know it, deep in the crevices of my soul. I have to be so intimately acquainted with Jesus that His words spill out when I open my lips. I have to be constant in holding myself up to the example of His life. I have to allow myself to be probed and torn and mended by the Hands of my Creator.
I think of the hope you offered me, the small spark you struck in my heart . . .
. . . and I think the agony of pursuing truth is worth the chance to do the same for someone I love.
So thank you, for your hand about my wrist, for your eyes locked with mine, for the truth in your words, . . . for being the image of Jesus to me.
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