Drop The Needles From Those Hands

Picture a woman. Not an older woman, but middle-aged. Her face still radiant and fresh, but bearing the slight lines and scars of her battles. She carries herself home every night, weary and tired from the work of the day, but no longer aching, weak and disheveled as before. Her pains are honest. Her work is just. Her days end on her time and not on the time of another. She is learning. She is succeeding. Her body, once ruled by others, is now hers; her soul, once gripped by darkness, now glinted with light; her mind, once swarming with torment, seething with hurt and anger, now quieter. Clearer. Lighter.

There was a time when the fields were fuller, the land far from barren and the work much easier. In her mind, she remembered them. She remembered those days, those times and the joy. That was long ago when life was different. That was before the pain. Before the dirt became too stiff and the weeds too high. Many had been left behind, a few had moved on. Bearing the burden of such work had become far too great, however and these few were not enough. Their toils were not enough. Love for those fields was not enough to carry them through.

She waits at a crossroads. She waits with patience, empathy and compassion for one who will soon join her. As she has not traveled too far, she does not mind the wait. She rests. She reflects. She gains more knowledge everyday. A brief reprieve is welcome. Lingering here is comforting.

In the distance, she sees a figure coming toward here, although misty and formless just yet. She knows it is her. She knows that she will be coming. She is already on her way. Thinking her rest to be long, her time at this place to be lengthy, she begins to settle in for a while. Amazed by what she sees ahead of her, peering down the path that she had once tread, the ruts worn by her very feet, she draw closer and closer. Faster than expected. Her arrival will be soon.

Only steps away now, she remembers her when she was young. Nothing more than just a baby. She smiles at her passing thought of how important it is that even she remembers herself that way: just a baby. The love that she feels is immutable, the empathy she feels is intense. They are alike in so many ways; they are different in so many others. She looks at her, a younger version of herself, and grabs her by her hands, turning them over. The palms are sore and stingy, remnants of the dirt remains. She remembers it all too well. The face she stares into is desperate, the eyes drown in despair. The soul she sees before her is lost.

Gently, she speaks. 'I will take your hands and mend them. I will bandage your wounds and your heart. With my love I will protect you. With my knowledge I will enlighten you. With my experience I will shield you. I know the way. I have begun the journey. All you have to do is follow. You do not have to feel the prick of the needles. Throw them down. Drop them from your hands. You need never look back upon that field. Never to work the earth. That earth is barren, hostile and dead. Nothing will grown there anymore.'

I tell you, my sister, that you do not have to feel those needles. Turn your back on that field. It is our time to know joy. It is our time to know life. The salve you apply to mend those cuts you cannot remove; you cannot tear at those scabs; you cannot reopen those wounds. We must heal. In our time we will. It is that word, 'will', that kept us in the fields so long. Humility is our future. Let go. Follow me. I will lead you to new fields. In these fields, we ALL work.