The porcelain holding the prayer rope.
As we prepared for church this morning, I heard the sound of breaking glass- a terror in any house with small people. The Eldest sheepishly confessed:
"I was trying to see what was in that porcelain bowl by the chair and it fell off the wall and broke. I'm sorry mom. It was an accident."
But I wasn't in the mood for an accident. Because the thing he wanted to touch was a prayer rope I'd woven from 13 strands of my hair and twine and wooden beads as a gift for my husband in lieu of holy water. In lieu of so many things I want to give but lack.
And so I got upset. Told him sorry wasn't enough. Told him fixing it was needed. Told him this in an unforgiving voice I wish I could erase.
He asked me for forgiveness. What goes around came back to me asking his forgiveness.
We forgive one another in a circle that tastes nothing like poetry. A circle that tastes closer to tawdry plastic trees. But this circle is love, a prayer rope, a mistake I won't stop making. The only freedom comes when I show him what he already sees-- son, I am nothing bigger or better than Thee.
