Gloved

 © Elise Grinstead 2013

I regard myself in the mirror and I bring my hands up to see what is living. My hands wear so many gloves—more than it seems possible to wear at one time. I peel them off in an attempt to see my own flesh. The layers take a while, and what a collection they are. I remember putting some on—others I don’t. Off they go until I see my own freckle on palm, until I see me for myself. I press my hand to the mirror to meet its own, to truly glance at myself once again…

As the fingers meet, there is at once a regarding of words residing deep within, but trapped in that reflecting glass in which they can bear no voice. They remain there, trapped, until their presence is acknowledged and set free into the life they are manifested in. I feel this transference, and it is strands of words, one after the other, coming, coming, and it is a stark reminder of how little I have rested, attempted to wear my own in this last year.

I ask the Lord often, “What do you require of me; what are you asking me to do in this moment?” I hear many good things born in truth, but when He asks me simply for me, I write it off as not enough. Perhaps it is pride, or maybe fear—one of these unique combinations of antitheses that shouldn’t go together but often do, like life—so fragile, yet so firm…so finite, yet so infinite.

I have a glove, and I have a hand. On their own, they are its each, but together, they are one—complementary though one is dead and one is living.

What do I fashion? What do I regard? What do I hold on to? There are so many gloves, some that belong to me; others I bear that belong to those close to me, and others of those I don’t know—even those hanging on a fence post in hopes that it would find the hand it belongs to. There are those whose hands are similar to mine—I wear their gloves well and become one with it until it’s time to give it back. Others don’t fit as well but they ask me to try. Still others are left unworn and untried.

These gloves—they lay around on this bare wood set before me—they are laid aside and now not worn. I feel freedom. Their intention is not to bring death but to preserve life. In itself, it is not bad, but yet distracting from the seeking of life itself, which is the whole point. I cannot see my own flesh if it is covered by others. I cannot see me if I never look. I cannot allow the Lord to set free what is imprisoned if I cover myself and stifle what is meant to be. I see these lines under my eyes for the first time and wonder from where they came from and when—bearing reference to this hope so fragile, yet in Him so firm; this life so finite, yet in Him so infinite. I am meant to wear but one glove, my own, and allow Him to be the hand. On our own, we are our each, but together we are One, because He has taken me from dead and sets me to living.