Open-Heart Surgery (Poem)

When I was twenty-one,
My friend asked me to read Hinds' Feet for High Places.
And only after closing the last page
Did I finally understand the quote...
“Love is open-heart surgery.”

See, love isn’t soft violins and easy smiles.
Love is bearing the deepest, most intimate,
most vulnerable part of you...
placing it on a table,
and letting someone decide
whether to cut, to keep, or to stitch.

We forget…
Both people hold something sharp enough to kill us.
But the brave thing?
Is choosing to trust anyway.
Choosing to believe
they’ll heal, not harm.

Most days, I watch people hand their hearts
to those with knives instead of scalpels,
icepicks instead of needles,
and they wonder…
Why are they left bleeding when people leave?

And then I saw you.
Sharp in your hand, eyes steady,
and I had no idea
the kind of damage you could do.
And still…
I trusted you, and I lay down
on the cold table of my own fear,
closed my eyes, and waited.

You grafted into my heart
a sense of safety I had never known.
You stitched into me
a love that looked like care in motion...
Like honey and vanilla matcha
just because.
Like, “I noticed you haven’t eaten…here.”
You made me see
The Lord loves me like that.
Not just in Calvary’s blood,
but in quiet kindnesses.
In a provision that feels like gentleness.

You sewed confidence where shame once lived.
And when your work was done...
You didn’t leave me open.
You didn’t walk away mid-surgery.

No.
You stayed.
You stitched me shut.
You covered what was sacred.
You helped me guard the parts
I don’t show everyone.

And now I understand...

“Love is open-heart surgery.”

Not because it’s painless,

But because it’s holy.

Because it requires trust,

and trembling,

and the willingness

to be cut open...

to be changed...

and still call it healing.

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