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You are rarer than you know,
a patient beach-comber who walks the sands,
searching for troubled souls washed ashore
like splintered sand dollars and shattered shells.
It takes a seldom-found compassion and grace
to gather each piece by carefully sieving sand,
and then with the softest, but firm touches,
apply the glue of faith to mend their cracks.
Like kintsugi pottery, the warmth you give
lingers in the people you have touched:
golden transmutation of scars into strengths
more beautiful because of your beholding eye.
Your words make plain the possibility of healing.
Your actions encourage it with every brush.
Your trust gives those who come to you faithless
a chance to find their own value as greater
than the sum of merely their parts.
How do I know this to be true,
with all the certainty a soul can hold?
Because I have been at times the shards of shell
fortunate enough to pass through your hands,
and I am immeasurably better for it.
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