Iridescence

    Picture this: a world in which the harsh sunlight reflects threateningly off brick and steel buildings, forcing everything to slow its wandering and breathe deeply. Slowly. Moisture hangs in the air, wreaking havoc in its own little world, pushing, darting; invisible until it comes to cling heartily to the clothes of the soul unfortunate enough to wander into its clutches.
    The buildings are accompanied by a shimmering in the air which announces the sun's assault on the cracked and dirty sidewalks. Chain-link fences separate the fiery asphalt of the streets from abandoned basketball courts and lots where stripped cars bask lazily. Alleyways are strewn with garbage and glass, the smell of alcohol and cigarette hanging in the damp air.
    Picture this: a mass of humanity provides dull motion against the scene, each hurrying along with unseen purposes; the beginning until the end they are but mere background to the companions who walk with them daily. It is the error of humanity. We do not pause to consider that the man begging for money on the street corner is just as much a human as ourselves. They each have a life, pains, sorrows, regrets. The spark of life is not that which is seen often or easily.
    This mass of humanity struggles through their existence, limping, crawling, dragging themselves across streets, through stores. Each is broken in some way; leg, arm, and neck braces are worn as though it is the latest fashion trend. And aside from the occasional hassle in the morning of struggling to fit into the braces, it is an unspoken, even unnoticed, situation. Despair has a way of soon becoming apathy.
    Picture this: a girl struggles up a set of concrete stairs, alone among many, knowing that something is not right. She is desperate to be rescued, but she knows not what so threatens her. She is desperate for someone to tell her she is beautiful. She is desperate to be loved. She doesn't know it yet.
    Her struggles up the stairs come at last to their painful end and she readjusts her crutches without considering it. It is an unconscious habit; a natural one in this society of cripples. She is returning to what she forces herself to call home. It is a place where her mother ignores her and her father hits her. She is long past tears.
    Picture this: a man wanders through the crowds, watching the girl with knowing eyes, crinkled in empathy. He walks strongly, without a brace holding together his sturdy form. But blood drips through his fingers from the gaping holes scarring his wrists. The same is to be said of his ankles.
    He follows the girl, the ache in his heart betrayed in his eyes. With every step more of his blood trails behind, mixing with the dirt of the city. She leads him to her home, and he steps inside, unnoticed.
    Picture this: a father enraged and drunk rushes the girl. She knows that screaming will only make him angrier. A father should cherish and protect. This one babbles incoherently as he forces shame upon his only daughter. He draws back a hand and swings for her face. The man with the bloody wrists watches sadly. As the hand strikes the girl, he recoils as though he has taken the blow.
    The girl breaks free of her father's bruising grip and runs out of the house, searching for something; desperate to find hope, somehow; somewhere.
    Picture this: a city horizon set on fire as the sun goes down. The faintest sliver of pale iridescence announces the arrival of the moon in the late evening sky even as the sunlight still kisses the city goodnight. Most would consider it a beautiful sight. No one looks up to notice it. A shame.
    In an alley smelling of marijuana and urine the girl leans against a brick wall, sobbing. Perhaps she is not past tears after all. There must be something out there better than this. But no. This is how the world is. This is humanity. Beneath her brace, pain shoots up her leg and she chokes, halfway between a sob and a gasp. It is never ending.
    Picture this: a blade, shimmering in the fading light, pulled from the girl's pocket. Tear stained eyes look longingly down upon it. It is comfort; it is addiction. It doesn't really help. But there it is. A friend in desperation. She firmly drags the blade across her skin.
    The man catches his breath as slits appear on his wrists. Tears threaten to burst from his brimming eyes, but they are not for the pain. They are for a love deeper than anything you or I could imagine. He would do anything for this girl; anything to show her that she was really his daughter.
    Picture this: a man approaching a young girl in a darkening alleyway. His hands and feet bleed; now his arms do as well. He lifts the girl in his arms and holds her close. She does not see him; lost as she is in her misery. He draws her close and strokes her hair fondly.
    She relaxes against him, a child finding her ease. He whispers in her ear, "I'm here. I love you. You are so beautiful to me. I love you just as you are. I cherish everything you are. I love you. I love you. I love you."
    Tears spring anew to her eyes, and she finally wraps her arms around his strong body. He holds her there for what seems like hours, and together they cry. At last they pull apart, and there is a new spring to her step; a new light in her eyes.
    Picture this: a man with bleeding wrists walks away down an alley. In his right hand, he clenches two crutches. And he limps through the brace on his leg. A young girl races away across a city, new, loved, and whole.

    Isaiah 53:4-5 "Surely he took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows....But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed."