I’ve spent too many years in my dark little attic, spying the world through cracks in the floor. I’ve cried too many tears when my heart was so lonely, ‘cause I didn’t dare open that little trap door. I’ve been too often bitter that time’s gone without me. That people are older while I’m still afraid. And I’ve too often blamed all the people that loved me when they gave up on coaxing me out, so I stayed.
But this morning, I heard, through the singing of angels, a weeping, pathetic and vain as my own. And through the small cracks of my self guarded prison, I noticed a wounded girl sitting alone. I lifted the edge of the heavy door upward. The hinge loudly scraped from the rust and the grime. And I peeked with one eye through the slit that I’d opened, attempting to shatter my own paradigm.
I crept toward that girl with my knees badly shaking, barely supporting my heart’s heavy hole. For I knew if my tear-salted hand touched her lesions, the Spirit would heal both her body and soul. But before I had touched her with God’s gift of healing, I fled to my little home, locking her out, for I’d seen in her eyes a most dreadful reflection: my arrogant pride and my fear and my doubt.
“He will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’