I have met them all: theologians and warriors,
but when they told me of this one they call God,
I could not understand.
But she reached through my world of broken glass,
reached through my barriers as if they were not there, and she
held out words, her precious, sacred, crafted words.
“It is not much, not good,” she tried to tell me,
“But you can read it.”
And when I did, I understood what the theologians could not tell me.
For this story was a mightier warrior than any I had met,
and I began to understand a mystery,
a mystery called “Christ in us, the hope of glory,”
I began to understand because the swans lamented.
So in the end she gave me this gift:
a novel that told my own story back to me,
with hope in the end.
But perhaps it was not this that reached me, after all, for
not everyone would look at a lonely, angry scribbler
and see potential;
fewer still would take the time to offer hope.
But this is what she did—
gave me a story about hope and listened to my fears,
exchanged a completed novel for my incoherent scraps,
and when everything was dark,
she crafted a stepladder that reached all the way to the stars,
and then reached back and pulled me with her.