Woman Worthy

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I have worn dresses designed for a woman I have corresponded with over 26 years. It’s kind of a funny story, we have worn many of the same dresses,

Like that blue one from my childhood that showed me I could put on pants and still be a beautiful girl, or the one that came to costume me for stages lit to show a spark of color

Lent from teenage imagination and dreams of adult worlds. We both knew those dresses well, but there are some I still wear in secret,

Once white, now brown, once fresh, now spoiled, they mark my spirit tainted, jaded, caught up in the past, mirrored to know the character of the slyest stranger shame,

She has worn them too, but called me out to share about a man in burial clothes who stripped himself and stepped out in the sun,

Her wardrobe says sun, her style only knows light. Those days of rags are gone, she burned them with the night,

Her dresses are dignity. Her gowns speak strength. Their colors shed laughter on the surface of her skin and her gems reveal that a relational investment was not made in vain,

She writes out words on the fabric to remind her of that new name now written on hands everlasting in a court built upon the rags and garments of life and time,

There we wear a dress together, perceived to be the epitome of living female, feeling woman, its lace adorns the curvature and figure

Ever promising peace to eyes that wait on the dressmaker crafting gowns. For she who knows herself and wears her image proud can live to call this feeling home.

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