Little, sweaty, wooden cross

by You Have My Word

Beautifully hand crafted, this slightly imperfect, little wooden cross. Wood, the colour of skin, engraved meticulously with scripture – it belongs there. The grain runs top to bottom across the horizontal arms that sit fractionally off perpendicularity. Small enough to clasp in public without being seen. Big enough for me to be reminded that it’s there, this little cross and the one where Jesus was hung, bare.

Sometimes I hold it so long and so tight in the palm of my hand – pressing wood to skin with fingers – that I feel like I’ve cut off all circulation to my fingertips, leaving only an outline-imprint of horizontal-vertical, criss-cross axis in my flesh.

I can go hours before realising I still have my fists clenched – like a rioter – around this symbol of peace, to the point that when I finally let go, my hands are sweaty and I have to pry my fingers apart.

I want so badly to teach my heart to cling to The Cross as my hands cling to this one. I want so badly for my heart to never let go, never realising how long I’ve been holding on but to hold on longer still. I want so badly for The Cross to mean more than this small wooden reminder ever serves to be.

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