I missed my stop and crossed the bridge to Brooklyn.
I caught myself judging, today. Into my train car sauntered a woman who instantly reminded me of my father’s mistress. A set of eyes which gazed too intently at the man she was accompanying, a ratty head of hair, and clothes which said she paid attention to being paid attention to.
Her hands were in her pockets, and each time she took them out to gesture, I would try to catch a glimpse of a ring on her left hand. No ring. There was no way for me to peek at the fellow’s hand, so I slowly began to craft a story in my head fused from a combination of things: her coy flirtation, his guarded but welcoming reception, and of course, my own life.
I knew nothing of their real story. I know nothing about them. And there, as I sat there wondering, “Is this what she looked like sixteen years ago? Is this how it began?” - it struck me: God loves this mysterious train woman the same as He loves me. Throughout the ages, He’s held favorites in His own way…but none like the Son.
We are forgiven everyday.
So we must forgive, everyday.
He loves the whore.
So I must love…the whore.