Bible Study Live | John 1

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Hands Not Held

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  In a room where greetings weave,  a gesture extends—a common thread.  Yet her hands, folded, quietly cleave  to the fabric of a past that bled.   For where some see an offer, a sign,  she sees the shadows of a darker play.  Those hands, once weapons, cross a line  that to others seems miles away.   Imagine the hands, not tools of peace,  but of war, that touched without grace,  that stripped the night of any lease  on safety, on a sanctified space.   So, when hands reach out to bridge a gap,  her heart retreats to a fortress old,  built on tremors of a former trap,  lined with stories, silent and cold.   Yet in her strength, a tale unfolds,  not of the hands that caused her fear,  but of the power that she now holds,  to define touch, to hold it dear.   In every greeting she might refuse,  there is a stand, a boundary set.  Her hands are hers to use—or not—  a choice...
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No Borrowing from the Clock

The clock keeps the rules: no borrowing. No loopholes, no back-room deals, only this moment issued, stamped and undiscounted.   We all arrive with the same rulebook: hands move forward; minutes don’t reverse engineer; tomorrow won’t extend a line of credit.   Young hearts hear an echo of plenty. Age hears the tick as a metronome, steady as rain on sheet metal, counting out dances we’ll never learn.   You are not here, and still you measure me. Your afterimage sharpens the edges of noon, tilts the compass of my errands, whispers, choose what outlives you.   So I pay the hour in attention: one call I owe while voices still match, one refusal that guards what matters, one walk that teaches my lungs their names.   By dusk, the day is used, not kept, spent like breath on what deserves it. If another morning is minted for me, I’ll meet it with exact change:   no borrowing, only spending; no guarantees, only purpose; and the tender the clock accepts not money, not...
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The Cost of Becoming

I thought the leaving would happen all at once A single storm, a wave that crests and breaks And leaves behind a smooth, new shoreline Where only the brave remain.   But loss has patience. It lingers in empty chairs at family gatherings, In holiday cards that never come, In the sudden cold of a friend’s silence.   The price is more than paperwork Though there are days when my name is a line item On some bureaucrat’s form, My identity contingent on stamps and signatures, A scavenger hunt through offices and websites For the right letter, the right code, Proof that I belong to myself.   It is the ache of every sideways glance, The stinging echo of a once-loving voice Turned sharp or silent. It is waiting on hold, listening to bad music, Rehearsing explanations for the hundredth time, Trying to convince a stranger That my happiness is not a clerical error.   Yet, beneath the pile of rejections, Underneath the smud...
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