Mine is a bleeding heart. Why must there be blood to be alive? Why the endless pumping, going in circles, carrying, nourishing, taking out the exhausted byproducts of living? Why the vulnerability, that shows up every time I am wounded? More blood, more of my limited love supplies, spilled and spent.

Marriage asks so much of me. It asks me to give today, last week, and more than likely tomorrow too.

Yet, like the flower that appears in my garden on a spring day, the love I give and give and give again was not really mine to begin with. It showed up, boon of my bones, when some unknown force knew I was in short supply. Come to think of it, it shows up every time I need it, no matter how much gets spilled.

Thank you, Lord, for the bleeding heart.