Impatient

I am not perfect.

I muddle, I trip, I fall.

My imperfections are obvious to the

one I call mine.

He strives to overcome

the struggles that are uniquely his,

while I trip over the hurdles in my own life.

We are sometimes impatient with the progress

that the other is not making.

I see the mud on you, I see the skinned knee,

I see your bowed head.

But I don’t really see it.

Because I still ask you to jump up and

do this, accomplish that and say,

“Why aren’t you at the finish line already?”

But if I really stopped to see you –

if I stopped to hold your heart and

not be consumed with our place in the race

then I would notice

that there is

mud all over me,

I am bleeding

and I can’t lift my head.

If I stopped to hold your heart

I would wipe the mud off of your face.

And then you would see that I am bleeding

and you would put salve on my wounds.

You would lift my head and

I would take your hand

and we would

be a team

pursuing each other

and the finish line,

together.