Tenderness

When you were a girl,

you loved a kitten

with such fierceness

that you ground your

teeth telling her how

cute she was. It took

heavy boulders of

self-restraint to keep

yourself from tickling

her furry belly when

she trusted you by

rolling on her back,

pawing her soft pads

in the air. You melted,

but you were purposeful

in your answering tenderness.

Now the question is if you

have the wherewithal to

turn that gentle fondness

inward? Can you chuckle at

your own silliness for misplacing

your phone again? Can you

find it adorable when you

make a public mistake? Can you

call yourself sweetheart and feel

that warm surge of affection?

Can you look at your reflection

in unflattering light, taking in

the cellulite dimples on your

fish belly thighs and say,

I see you, without a pinch of

irony or regret?

Would reality crumble

if you were to say to that person

in the full-length glass that

she is good enough? That she

is worthy of this sustained,

loving gaze, even without

achievement? That she never

disappoints any heart that truly

listens to her deep hunger?

And what is your heart's cry?

The one beneath the lesser

voices of the brutal critics,

the craven armor bearers,

and the justifiers with their

glossy paintbrushes? Is it not

for the love you once lavished

on that small stray? The

unearned approval that we

call amazing grace?

Can you not find your own

mew of hunger as compelling,

as irresistible as the kitten's cry?

With the twinkle of a grin,

God is nodding in assent.

What if all the world frowned

in negation? What if you and God

stood on one side, and all the

rest voted elsewhere? Whose

endorsement counts for more?