The sun has set.
You are fast asleep.
The ground beneath you is cold.
You have no covering.
Your belongings are on your person.
Your toes have bled through your socks.
Your sun dried face is pressed against the chapel door.
And my hand instinctively covers my heart.
And it is all I can do to refrain from waking you.
I do not know you, but my soul knows you full well.
You are a picture of myself, a portion of your story is mine.
Longing for fullness.
Loathing your empty.
Hope must be inside.
Reason to keep going.
The antidote to loneliness lays beyond the curtain.
And what I see with my eyes reminds me that the inner most chamber of my heart was made for You.
And I may not sleep, exposed, at night, but I close the closet door for the same reason your body lies impressed upon the door.
I get it.
A physical display of the desperation felt inside.
And You remind me, as the sun is setting, that the Son has risen.
You whisper a story of hope to my seeking self.
I am the ransomed one.
The daughter of fullness, because of the brokenness of Jesus.
The fabric was torn.
The stone has rolled away.
The door is now open.
The invitation stands.
I offer You my utmost, that You may overwhelm my inner most.
Man on Monroe, thank you for illustrating my story.
My hope is this: He has risen indeed.