Dust

      Did Your finger trace my name in the dust that day?
     
      It’s so easy to see it written there, among the accusers, among the accused. Those who were called so gently to Your grace, those who laughed at it, those who spit in Your face. And You, knowing so fully what we could never begin to comprehend—did You give up on us then, our names in the dust at Your feet, our spirits irretrievably far from Your own? No one could have blamed you; the would-be condemners rightfully condemned by a Love we had so thoughtlessly denied.
   
      Or, with Your hand in the dirt, did You look at my name and whisper “Father, forgive them?”
   
      And here the picture becomes harder to see, less probable, and the mind grasps for some bit of understanding. That truth, love, mercy, justice…that all that You are could look on all that we are so obviously not, could see through to the parts of us that we have never dared to acknowledge, and could still—impossibly, inexplicably—could still love us perfectly. How can we know what to do with a love like that? And we are ashamed, or overwhelmed, or disbelieving, and so we shake our heads and turn away to make the scene fit better into our heads. Thanks…but no thanks.
   
      And then, when I had so deliberately walked away…would You then wipe my name away?