When I was ten-years-old, I came home from school, broken and shattered, not from what a student had done, but from the words of a teacher. The walk home was slow and bitter, a journey marred by the pounding self-condemnation of being called worthless. But, this injustice would end well for me; I’d made it to the broken, tattered steps of our home—the place where broken doves were healed.
The screen door creaked and the rotten floor boards sank under the small weight of my feet. None of this outward appearance mattered, the healer of “Broken Doves” stirred around in the kitchen. I stepped over the threshold to her. Tears came from my eyes to express my distress, and my joy to see her.
I had reached the healer of broken doves.
She wore a smile on her lovely face and held a cold drink and a sandwich in her hand.
“I knew you would need these things today, my child. I’m here to comfort, guide, and encourage you always. Take heed to my words and wear them as a sleeve made of armor, and as for your teacher, Mrs Hellbreath, I’m coming to school on tomorrow to deal with her in person. Of that you can depend on.”
“But how? How did you know Mrs Hellbreath had called me ugly names in front of the whole class?”
“Because I was created to do so. After all, I am the healer of broken Doves.” http://youtu.be/OV9kmOBNPAY