A Prayer of Understanding

You don't know me.

You don't know what I have gone through, the places I have been, the things I have seen, the deeds I have done. What wisdom I have learned through fire. And regret. Look at these hands? What secrets do they hold? Look at these feet? What deserts have they trod?

You don't know me.

You don't know the trials I have endured, the choices I have made where there were no right ones but I had to choose anyway, and live with the conseqences and endure the criticisms, ridicule, and 'should have dones' from uninvolved bystanders. You don't know the sacrifices I have made and what offenses I have suffered in silence. You don't know what grief I have endured for what principals I hold dear. What lies I have told to protect someone I love. How many swords I have fallen on.

You don't know me.

If you cannot tell a book by its cover, you certainly can't tell one by its title. Or by a single chapter. Or a word at random. And certainly not by a synopsis prepared by someone who has not lived it. Someone who has not read it.

You want to know me? Then ask me who I am, don't tell me who I am. Or better yet, read your own book. How do you want others to know you?