Quiet. Inside. She held ancient ruins in a body of six. Short years long suffered and there she stood…without sound. The other girls danced and jumped and gave. But she held back, locked away. The wall she stood beside expressed an extension of herself, her life, her need, and she dared not move from its structure.

Trauma. Ruin. Attachment loss. The torture of souls contorted, of smells, of fire, flickering coals repressed and the other girls danced and jumped and gave. But she held back. Nothing to offer for all had been taken.

And then she stepped out and walked to me. I froze.

I picked her up. She had dared to risk. I dared to give and I held her. My own daughter. And there we were. I held her with strength but not tight, powerful but not restraining, and with eyes closed I prayed God would see her, but He already had. So I prayed she would see Him.

There…holding her I saw her heart and we both were filled.