There are those whose stories
Are etched on their bodies;
It’s in every untimely wrinkle,
Each inexplicably heavy sigh;
The weight of each step,
The unconscious stoop,
The wary glance,
The weary countenance,
The shallow smile.

It’s in the strain in each inhale
And the wince that accompanies the exhale;
It’s in the fire they spit
And stones they throw;
It’s in the wounds they inflict
And the bonds they sever;
It’s in the vice-like hold onto hurts
And the stoking of the fires of bitterness;
It’s in the visible scars that react
Even to the gentlest of caresses,
And the invisible scars that are nothing less than landmines;
It’s in the jagged-edged daggers hidden in their sleeves
Sadly reserved for those who draw uncomfortably close –
Unnaturally schooled in the art of dealing maximum damage
At point-blank range to the unexpectant and hardly deserving.

But I am pampered,
For my steps are heavy with the weight of purpose,
My wrinkles tell a story of wisdom that my smile does not betray;
My wary glance is that of concern for those still in pain;
I walk upright for I now carry a light burden – yokes swapped.
And if I look wearied, it’s only because I’ve momentarily shut
Myself off from my source of strength – my Ever-present Help.

But I am pampered,
For though my story is branded onto my body
And sealed into my soul, it’s constantly being divinely rewritten.
Those scars that cover unhealed wounds,
The smoldering fires and the vice-like grip;-
Healed, quenched and made gentle.
My daggers have been wrested away
Replaced with soothing balms,
Healing oils, and scented bandages.