Those boys with slammed cars and white hands, don't envy them.
You've found your place in the wind. You've put your print on the soil. You've stood your shadow in the blazing sun. You've shared the silent discourse of a living land.
They look right past you. There's not bluster or brag enough in you to suit them. You stand at peace with earnest eyes, with no words that recommend. Though your hands tell of your care, your gaze of your honor, your bearing of your discipline, and your shoulders of your power, it is not a language they read or understand.
When a little one reaches, seeking, you bend to meet his height. You see a seedling to nurture where others might neglect and ignore. You build, they batter, you toil, they boast. You ponder the deeper things, they chase the fads in films and flings. If ever you weary of standing alone, unreckoned and ignored, hold fast and anchor deep because somewhere...someone sees.
Someone reads the story of your hands, she deciphers the language of your eyes. Your Savior is hers as well; she recognizes His voice, she finds in you a kindred joy.
Do not look past her, do not ignore. What others see as plain or unassuming, do not despise. Find the sunshine hidden in her hair. Find the breeze caught in her whirl. Find the dawn that breaks when she smiles.
Read her eyes, hear her heart, for you may just find they speak the silent discourse of a living land.