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The Man and the Woman

And the Dust at Their Feet

 

For all those who have walked in these footsteps—

I write this…

 

The woman stood in the village square, home of her forefathers, with dust at her feet. Her people had picked up stones to stone him, for that was his due, and even he knew it. The woman’s own heart knew it. But he was so beautiful, and she knew he felt remorse—bowing his head.

They were about to stone him.

She knew the Law, but she also knew she served a God of mercy. And so she stepped through the crowd and glared at them until they looked away, ashamed. Her eyes bore into their souls, dividing them bone from marrow. She, too, knew them. And she knew they each deserved to be stoned for various things. They knew she knew, for many had shared their stories with her. And those who hadn’t shared their stories… well, she was a soul-reader. And many stories she just knew without asking.

If she, the one who had been wronged because of his sin, chose mercy over penalty, how could they choose the penalty over mercy? Did not their God—Yahweh—say that He desired mercy, not sacrifice?

Some still stood though, with stones in their hands and self-righteousness in their faces. And she knew they meant him harm. She looked at him. He was so beautiful. She walked to him and knelt beside him, wrapping him in her arms, and she whispered, “It’s okay. I forgive you. God knows I need His forgiveness as much as you do.”

And in that moment, the devil lost. And the man’s soul lived. As for those toting stones… They left him well enough alone after that. People can’t mess with mercy, or lionesses. 

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