One Little Book

In wooden pews, the blonde little girl,
thought of Him as nothing more
than a character in a book.

But the woman she became
left behind the words He’d said—
too prideful to ever admit
destruction by the hands of man,
and maybe by her own.

No lies—
except the one
she told herself:
that the enemy let her breathe.

Changing for the characters around her,
a shirt rough and stiff,
too tight against pale skin—
frayed at the collar,
clinging where it shouldn’t—
and the sins of a man,
added to her own.
For when you allow one to touch you,
you become one whole.

But when she was bold enough
to step out of pride,
she was surprised to find herself
in the same wooden pews.

This time, her legs didn’t dangle,
and her dress—soft cotton,
pattern faded and worn—
passed her knees with quiet grace.
She stepped outside after Sunday service,
and for the first time,
felt the fresh cold splash of raindrops,
as the leaves whispered with the wind,
the puddles grew like baptism pools.

She simply said,
“Oh—God knew,”
and danced in the rain.

It didn’t burn the same.
She was finally home.
All it took
was one little book.