Sand Scribbles

The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman caught in adultery, and having set her in the center of the court, they said to Him, "Teacher, this woman has been caught in adultery, in the very act. "Now in the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women; what then do You say?" They were saying this, testing Him, so that they might have grounds for accusing Him. But Jesus stooped down and with His finger wrote on the ground. (John 8:3-6, NASB)

Humans love to restate the obvious. A woman is caught with someone's husband. She knows she's an adulteress. Everybody knows. She doesn't want to expect any different from this man, this Jesus, but she's heard things. . .

Whenever I see a sinner, wrecked and bleeding, being led to center court, I wonder if they too have a glimmer of hope, whether they pause to see if a pardon is scribbled in the sand or perhaps the truth about the sins of her accusers. Why is that those who need the most grace often give the least?

I am guilty of that. Gracelessness. I can extend extravagant understanding to my sistah circle, but sometimes the folks who love me, feed me get dragged into the middle of the room to hear what they already know. What they need to hear, that I too have been caught loveless, careless, guilty, chokes in my throat untold.

Even here, I pour out morsels meant for my own souls, insatiable in longing for the truth from me. One of mine will take no less. Not anymore. She's grown too old for my slight of hand. She knows all the tricks of my worn magic. When I put her in the circle, she no longer stares at the ground but levels her eyes at me in all my hypocrite splendor.

Even this little bit of word dancing makes me wonder. How far to go? How much to tell? Most of my stuff is about these people who love me, make me realize that it is I who deserves the office of chief sinner. Will I ever get it right? Probably not. But when He comes. . .

In a rush of wings, swoop of air, all will be well. She will know that in all my bumbling, I loved her.

Mirror, Mirror

Seems only yesterday you bounced past me, beads clanging, in your Kindergarten coat. I thought you'd be short forever.

What a fool I was.

Now, with forever legs and endless curiosity, you are becoming something defiantly lovely. Wonderfully beautiful.

I know your vision is sharp these days and you see the strings to all my puppets, know how I throw my voice, hide my soul.

You see my weak, flaking faith before I can exfoliate. Please. Love me anyway. I know I don't deserve it. I don't deserve you, a long, lean reflection of the best of me.

Just when I feel hopeless, you lean up at me, dragging your dreamy fingers in the sand. Those scribbles are my only hope. Thank you.

Copyright Marilynn Griffith 2004.