spending time with her-
sitting in those small wooden chairs,
watching streams of sunshine
pour through windows to land at my feet.
Often reflections would dance on the ceiling
as my shoes' movements would cause different shapes.
I'd watch all the reflected colors, many jewel-toned,
while listening to her Sunday morning lessons.
Aunt Bessie, a name we all called her,
was not my aunt at all, although it seemed she was.
She had twisted fingers, a stiffened arm,
and a strange walk; yet, she got around well.
I remember the oddly-shaped fingers,
how she'd awkwardly adjust her glasses
as stiffened fingers would fumble through passages.
She beamed when she shared simple teachings,
lessons she claimed to be rays of sunshine.
Her feeble smile and sparkling eyes
told the tale through her own physical pain
as she shared His sacrifice, His joy.
her role as messenger,
how she freely gave a gift
that has made a home in my heart
reflecting light dances through the seasons.