Our naked feet face the same direction.

Mine: tan with a fresh pedicure.

His: stained bright green around the ankle where his socks have been–evidence that the lawn work is done.

I spy a ladybug sitting on my toe and I tell him.

My husband moves close, looks over my shoulder…

I lift my foot and point my toe so he can see.

This is how I want to be seen. Perfectly painted toes, pointed and poised, with a ladybug as an adornment; a mark of approval, an anointing–like nature’s way of declaring that I’m initiated, I’m proven…I’m a nat-u-ral wo-man.

I giggle. (It’s a nervous giggle.)

I know why we’re here.

We do it on Sundays...ritually.

He lifts my hair and holds it up while I pin it loosely,I turn my head far; first, to one side and then to the other; to expose what’s hidden…so he can see.

His finger slides down my spine. His touch is light.

I want this; but the pressure is intense. 

Standing here bare and exposed, I’ve invited him to see me.

I’ve invited my husband to search for defects and point out my flaws.

Our doctor suggested this, as part of, our mid-life health care;through this ritual,

my husband makes me aware of what I can’t see, as well as, what I probably did see, and promptly ignored.

In turn, I make him aware, of things that have attached themselves to him; things that don’t belong, things that grow and become dangerous, the longer they remain hidden. Things that are cancerous.

My breath is a bit shallow. I’m aware of my anxiety and I hope that he’s not. 

It’s not the search for a hidden skin tag that has accelerated my heart rate. 

It’s not my exposed body and it’s not Melanoma, that I fear.

Not really.

I glance down and see that the ladybug has vanished; taking my poised, nat-u-ral wo-man image, with her. 

The intense fire of vulnerability; him seeing me; has consumed both my illusion and my delusion; how I’d like to be, and sometimes pretend to be, but know that I’m not…it’s all gone.

He turns me with  hand at my elbow; our naked feet face each other, and when he smiles, I realize that; it’s not in the seeing that I’m flawed (because he’s always seen). it’s in the inviting him to see, that I experience his care; it’s in the vulnerability, that I experience his protection, and know his love.

Then, from my heart, I hear the words of David, inviting God to see!

(Psalm 129:23-24)

²³ Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts.
²⁴ See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.

This is what protects me from, the far more deadly things; that attach themselves; and don’t belong; and sink poisonous tentacles, deep.

When they are allowed to remain hidden, they insidiously destroy; with tentacles of fear, criticism, pride and another called, “I just can’t get over how you hurt me” ;   they poison the well spring of my heart.

This is the source of grace, where we learn to become both vulnerable and fearless.  This ritual of confession and communion, with the lover of my soul; this is how we experience His care, His protection…His love!

I’m eager to come;  and with bare feet and wobbly knees; stand on sacred ground and invite Him to see my heart, mind, soul…naked.