She is dancing, if you could call it dancing, and she is chanting loudly within her soul in a voice you can hear in your ears if you listen closely, but her words are deafening if you listen with your heart. Her arms are over her head and wobbling like spaghetti, and her palms are pressed against the sky, as she is chanting, chanting, "Oh, how I love to be whole!" There's a one-two-three, one-two-three to her light side-stepping, and her skirt is swishing around her knees, while she is enveloped in her waltz that is made beautiful by content if not by form.
Your heart is splintering as you watch, listen and watch. You see in her arms the fractures that never healed, you see the shiny scars on her skin. You see the chips in her expression, and the flaws in her features. You see her brokenness and you feel broken for the soul who delights in wholeness while ignoring the cracks that mar her countenance. But she dances, if you could call it dancing, through the pain and through your pity, and the gloaming is thrashed by the radiance of her face while she chants, "Oh, how I love to be whole!"
She halts her reverie and grabs your hand, with a touch that is urgent and light and cracked. She compares the fractures palm to palm, and she traces the matching scars like she's seen them before, and her mile-deep eyes find your mind, melting into your fear and love and questions. With an accuracy that wavers and a sincerity that trembles, she tells you the joy-streaked truth: "In His love we are made complete." And your soul accordions around the words as your breaks stop aching and you grasp the source of her elation.
The mending has already begun.