God gave her one moment in time that she could stretch out for as long as she lives, this would be it.

But such memories are woven from gossamer threads; time eats holes in the fabric, and these she must darn with myth and fable.

In that sheltered, sacred nook between his arm and chest, she’s at peace. “Forgive me, Lord.” She thought

This is a part of me. Like the goldsmith’s wife whose face is scarred by smallpox, or the potter’s son whose foot is turned. This is me. This is who I am.”

She pleads silently, Never grow old, never die, knowing it’s too much to ask. My rock, my fortress, my deliverer.

In that sheltered, sacred nook between his arm and chest, she’s at peace. “Forgive me, Lord.” She thought

Paul said, “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”

A man without a mustache is exposed and vulnerable, like an unbaptized child, the soul still in jeopardy.

All water is connected, and her world is limitless. He stands at the limits of his. On her sixteenth birthday, she hears a commotion