image from northpoint.org
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ We are palms turned upward, fingers curled around absence~ sometimes empty, sometimes heavy with the weight of another’s hunger. A coin, still warm from holding, is passed. Bread is broken—hours shared. No record records these acts~ only the the quiet math of the heart. When you give, you are not diminished. When you take, you are not made small. We are rivers feeding rivers, each thirst a bridge to the next. Hold out your hands. They already know what the soul forgets~ every offering is a homecoming.
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