Child.

I was a child. I held the world in my hands; the mountains had peaks and the oceans, bottoms. I could speak of love as if I had created it with the same limbs that climbed the mountains, breathed into it with the same lungs that explored the depths - but it never touched me. I believed that the world was filled with marvelous fools who squandered after love and collected its pieces as if it could ever truly be held in their clumsy hands. I was not one of those marvelous fools. Because I was a child, and believed that I could never be harmed. If I was never to be harmed, I would never need love - because I can climb my own mountains, dive into my own oceans.

The first light of love can stab a person with the utmost pain and misery. A gift given but not received lies on its resting place, waiting for the day when the reciever's hands can grasp it and the giver's heart can fully give it over. Once love stabbed me with enough vigor, I accepted it. But I did not look into the giver's eyes.

I held the pieces of love; they were uncomprehendable to me. A new language that I feared to uncover. So I continued to climb my own mountains and swim in my own oceans. I was still boundless - I was not one of those marvelous fools. But I still held love in my hands; I kept it bound to my palms.

And then Love sent a man; some form in which I could understand it. I do not speak of the Christ figure I was educated fully in (but in my heart knew little of). No, I am speaking of a human man. Flesh - as sinful and thin as mine.  A man that sought Love - a man that believed in love. A man sent to give me a tangable understanding of the gift that I had wrapped in my palms, yet to become stale.

This man was sent to me. And then sent away. And I gave him the pieces of what I collected; I gave him the small shards that had begun slicing into my palms because they became too painful for me to bind to my own flesh. I gave him what had slowly become his. I gave him the pieces from my hands, but they had become so embedded in my palms that I had to give him pieces of my own flesh, my own blood, my own being. I had given him the gift that I was given - and my hands were finally empty of the love.

As I gripped the empty air around me, I realized I had become one of the mighty fools that squandered the earth for love. All I had left to show of my successes in collecting the pieces were the wounds still overwhelming my palms, palms which had become of a thicker flesh. The rest of my outer shell had become thicker, more difficult to puncture, as well. I was no longer a child, but a hard, leathery being.

It took me many stumbles and failings before I realized that something was inside of me. The physical pieces that were once embedded in my hands were gone, but had left something to flow through my blood stream and pump through my heart. I stood up from the grimy earth where I squandered for pieces of love, and understood the reason my flesh had begun to grow thicker. It was encompassing the original gift that had been stored within me ever since the giver had handed it to me. He had given me Himself - the gift giver, the being of Love, was inside of me. And my flesh began to thin out, so that I could now be His messenger, like the man was to me. And I no longer believed that I had created the mountain peaks and the ocean bottoms. But He did restore my belief that, with Him, I could never be harmed. I needed Love, for I was His child.