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Twice Redeemed

Redemption wears different faces. But mine mostly looks like this—his shoulder near hers, his ears relying on the speed of her tongue to make sense of the letters and words, her hands tilted, so that he can see the pages. Then…when she giggle-reads at the funny parts, his own laughter is sudden and full and together their shoulders bounce against the back of the couch and their eyes connect in the briefest knowing.

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It happens at the piano, too.

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Until.

Until  the Jesus Loves Me duet throbs through so many wrong notes that even Jesus might have a headache.

The one in gray bails first. He throws the refrigerator door open and complains that she counts too loud.  “It’s embarrassing,” he says.  “Everyone will hear it.”

We patch up the counting.

But she comes next.  One hand over her nose, the other pointing behind her. “He farted in there,” she squeals. ”

We hear his delight. His pride in ownership.

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And then it’s there again. If barely. Redemption.

Redemption–as Jesus Loves Me floats and trips and tries again from the piano.

And for a moment, it’s him and her. And her and him. And my full heart.

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