We sat. Under the tree. The soft rustle of leaves above us. The murmur of little voices before us. We prayed. A prayer of thanksgiving. For hope. For restored lives. For hearts on the mend. We sang. A song of praise. For what He has done. What He has done for me. For us. For them. One by one. They stood. It was a time for sharing. Sharing a story. A true story. Each testifying to the pit they once were in. Testifying. That now by grace a pair of hands. The Hands. Had reached down and pulled them out.
Each story varied. Each eye. Each heart. Seeing. Knowing. Feeling. Different pain. Each knowing that He can and has. That He could and would. Heal and make new. What was broken and crushed. Things were fine. Not too many tears. Everyone so brave. So bold. Until him. Quinto. So strong. So silent. So tenderhearted. His stoic demeanor hiding truth. Forgetting. He was just a child. He seemed like such a little man. But reality had to shine light. Reminding. That these were just children. Children who had seen into hell.
He stood with Reverend's sure arm around him. The only father figure he had known. Staring at the ground. His raspy voice trembling. He began. "I want to tell you about what my life has been…" There it stopped. Tears. Breaking through. Through the stone. Through the wall. So carefully built. So carefully guarded. Shock coursed through. "But Quinto never cries."
He quickly plopped down. Trying to shove it all back. Back. Down. Deep. Deep. Down. Where it couldn't be touched. Felt. Acknowledged. Oh, but how hands ached. Craved. Longed. To do just that. To reach in and touch the pain. To take it all away from this sweet little soul. As much as hands itched to heal. To mend what was torn. There was only one pair that could. That would. Be strong enough. Gentle enough. To do what needed to be done. To wipe away those tears. Those tears. The start. The beginning. The proof. Proof those hands. The Hands. Were working. Were healing. Were touching. As we sat. Under the tree.
