My phone high-pitches.
I read the words.
Outwardly I smile, while inwardly, I shrink back.
A few words texted, telling me how he loves me, using words I’d never think to describe me.
I know he’s seen me.
In the mornings with bed hair.
Sick over the toilet.
In my heated anger.
He’s seen me in all my most human, ugly moments.
And yet, he loves me and thinks of me most as the woman he loves . . .
and has responded to his love.
I beep him back.
“Really?” I ask. “You *truly* think of me like that?”
I ask, suddenly very unbelieving of all the times he’s told me this before.
I see this link as I wait for his response.
And she was right.
I needed this today.
“He knew [I] was going to be messy.
That’s the whole point of the the cross!”
I close my eyes at the wonder of it.