I met a sweet girl this week.  Can’t remember the exact whereabouts, but it was as though her voice just kind of entered my space.  Like when you learn a new word, and all of the sudden hear it all the time?  That’s how she feels—familiar and yet almost surreally unfamiliar.  I don’t recall having heard her voice before—had certainly heard of it, but honestly didn’t really think she existed.

On some fronts, my newfound friend is childish, but on others, incredibly mature.  
She knows realities of her interiority, corporality and uniqueness.
She’s humble enough to be weak.
She’s gentle on herself and compassionate with others.
She’s gracious and graceful with the Makings of her body.
She chooses laughter and welcomes tears.
She loathes shame and embraces anger.
She’s not afraid of her hunger, nor daunted by her complexity.
She’s not afraid of darkness, though doesn’t pretend to not want light.
She's not afraid of failing.
She’s not afraid of falling.
She does unto others, but is willing to prioritize doing unto herself.
She knows destinations of peace, but embraces the journey of war.
She knows she is beautiful.
She knows who made her new.

Her name is Abbie.
My name is Abbie.