Wounded Bird

She flits in through the door in her childlike way. As always, she is drawn by the worship. Candle to moth she comes eager and falls like a child on her knees when she finds us on ours. I wonder at the complexity of a life aged incredibly by abuse in a girl barely twenty. Her two children are taken away and institutionalized. Her family has put her out on the streets. Even brothels only keep her in spurts, wounded bird that she is. When did that bit of her snap which contained logic and reason? What final blow removed her capacity to comprehend? Yet, childlike she is here, pulled through the slums, the devastation, the chaos and darkness. Up four flights she has found her way in wintry gloom to kneel before the King of Kings in radiance. I feel His tears for her and His love. She does too.