did it hurt? when Thomas put his child-like hand into your spear-torn side—the only cure for his grown-up unbelief? 2,000 years later my twins dig their toes into the wrinkled skin of my belly stretch marked by my love and their growth. (I don’t mind it so much—) but it hurts when the tips of tiny toes find the edges of the scar from whence Jordan came and sometimes I still feel the zip of the scalpel across my tender skin and I feel afraid. but they seem to seek it like a reassurance, like a firm place to stand amidst a sea of softness. (to be feminine is not all softness—there is no one more ferocious than a mother.) as if Nathan is trying to remember the way I roared him earth side with a power like the tide. as if Jordan is seeking the strength with which I held on to hope, to consciousness, to her— amidst incredible pain. as if my scar, like an anchor holds their four tiny feet fast to this one truth: I would do anything. And I think of Jesus 2000 years ago his heart broken for the world then and now— his heart aching for his friends, Judas’ betrayal still sharp as a spear jabbing his mind— his hand tracing the place where thorns tore the forehead his mother used to kiss goodnight as they mocked him— the memory of the pain on her beloved face as she stood there watching him die— the agony of that last shallow breath— this Jesus offers his torn open body to Thomas: like a drink of living water; like a mother with a milk-stained shirt, and an open wound, and a bleeding body coming for the crying child in the dark of night with this reassurance, this one truth: I would do anything. did it hurt? is the ache still there somedays? in your glorified body where you chose to keep your scars? 2,000 years ago Thomas ran his clumsy fingers across the edges of your wounds, and at last the proof sparked the flame in his eyes— the light of a child believing at last in his own belovedness. and here I am grasping for the strength of a child-like belief. digging my toes in to this weighty anchor of a love that did everything.