The Hand



She sits in the dark,

Afraid to see the light,

Afraid that the scars she bears

Are more than she can stand to see.



Not scars one can see in a mirror,

These scars are etched deep within

Some are gaping wounds, still bleeding

There are many scars and she fears them



She fears the pain, 

She fears the sting,

She fears the healing,

For healing means more pain 

And she isn't sure she can handle more pain



The door cracks open, just a bit

A small ray of light enters 

She shields her eyes, for the dark has been long,

She sees a shadow and shrinks back,

Afraid, unsure, untrusting.



Through the ever opening door,

A hand reaches out, offering it to her,

She sits and stares at it, for a long time,

Afraid it could strike,

Afraid it might pull away.



The hand holds steady

Never waivering, never pulling back

It waits patiently, and long,

But never striking out, never hurting.

The hand is strong, but gentle.



She timidly touches the hand,

With little jerks to and fro, 

Filled with fear but curious

Curious about why it was so patient,

Why it didn't strike, why it didn't run.



She slowly allows herself to take the hand into her own

Touching it gently, timidly, her fear easing.

The hand is calm, the hand is gentle, 

She allows the hand to gently hold hers

It is calming, easing her fears.



There is no face

There is no body, 

Just this warm, kind, loving hand

On outstretched arm.  



It is the hand of God,

Her never waivering friend,

Her protector, her guide, 

She then knows that this hand

Will always hold her up into the light

Bringing her comfort, in time of need,

Never forcing his hand upon her, 

But waiting patiently for her to 

Reach out and take this hand.

To receive all the Love He has to give.


                        Michelle Byrd

                        April 26, 1998