He Loves Me

I always rip up the flowers God gives me.

Every time God hands me a flower, I slowly pick away the petals, one by one, whispering to myself,
“he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not,”
and then I get to the last petal on a “he loves me not,” so I rip it in half to pretend that he really does love me; whoever this mysterious he may be.

And the Lord, ever faithfully, as I silently look at the petal-less flower laying limp in my hand, covers my hands with His and gently takes the broken flower away and replaces it with another one, more beautiful than the last.

And I, ever faithfully, go right back to picking off all the petals, whispering to myself
“he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not,”
until the ground beneath me is covered with the misplaced petals of His love.

But ever faithfully, He waits beside me and waits for the day when I look up at Him and understand,

He loves me.

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