One of my girls handed me a warm, soft, beautiful heart, made of beeswax.

“This is for you!” She beamed.

“Oh, that’s so sweet,” I said, “Thank you!”

“I warmed it up in my armpit!” she exclaimed.

“Oh, um…lovely?”

We giggled,

but I was thinking…

(Stay with me, especially if you love metaphors about armpits – and who doesn’t?)

Is the beeswax heart a less tender offering because of where it has been?

Can we just assume that every heart has been through something?

What if we were open and honest about what our hearts have endured?

What if we spoke of it in clear, unwavering voices?beeswax heart

What if we took the risk to say,

“Here is my heart.

Let me tell you about the dark places it has been.

Do you still think it’s beautiful?

Will you keep it?”

 

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