Truly I tell you, unless you change
and become like little children,
you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.
—Matthew 18:3
A five-year old, as her parents tuck her in
at night, asks them to kiss her palms, fingers
splayed open. Says she now has power
in her hands.
Where did such wisdom come from?
Perhaps a sparrow adorning the fields
chirped and trilled it to the child,
or a dove, a haloed holy dove that
stirred a whisper in the wind and lighted
on her shoulder. Perhaps
she dreamt it in the shadow of her sleep—
a butterfly struggles to lift into the wet
air, its wing broken in the storm. A gentle
hand slips through the clouds and slides
under the butterfly, the nail-scarred wrist,
blood-stained palm touches the brokenness.
From the pierced hand, a dazzling fire-
light emanates—a gold flickering teardrop
enshrouded in scarlet—sifts through
the black net of veins. Slowly, the butterfly
folds its deep orange wings in silent prayer,
then quietly flits away rising to the heavens.
Wisdom doesn’t only come from old men
and grandmothers. Sometimes it is spoken
from the mouths of babes perfecting praise.
—Matthew 21:6