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Guest QueenJellybean

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Guest QueenJellybean

Let me tell you a story about the olive branches.

I’m filled with rage today.
Righteous, intense, deafening rage.
Rage for myself. For the person who I have been, and the person who I will continue to be.
Rage over the olive branches. 

All my life, I’ve been growing them.
I spend more time tending them than I do myself.
I always have one to spare for anyone who needs one, even if they don’t deserve it.
I’ve spent my entire life extending olive branch,
after olive branch,
after olive branch,
after olive branch.

I am not a saint. I make mistakes, we all do. I have not been the most generous person in the world, I have said things out of hurt and spite, I have been callous and unkind.
But I have always had my olive branches.
The thing about the olive branches is that you don’t even need to ask for one, and I will extend it.
It could be my very last one, and I’d still give it with the same smile even though I know it will take months of draining work to create more.
Even though I haven’t kept any olive branches for myself.
I will still offer it to you.

Often times, you will take it.
You will, because you don’t know I haven’t got anymore.
You will, because you need one desperately, regardless of who gives it.
You will, because you have heard of my olive branches and want to try one. 
You will, because I’ve offered it.
You will because I’ve offered it.

Some people in this world have so many of my olive branches, I’ve lost count of how many they’ve taken.
Because I just
keep
offering.

Even if I’ve been hurt, lied to, scorned, walked all over.

And you?
What have you done with my olive branches that I keep extending so selflessly, hoping that one day you’ll tell me you don’t need anymore, that just because I offer them doesn’t mean I have to give them away?
You’ve made a fucking centerpiece for your dining room table.
They are a conversation piece now, used as a tool to help make your life a little bit easier.
And when people compliment your beautiful olive branches, you tell them that you were so lucky to happen across them while you were walking along the path of life.
They’ve helped you so much, these bits of twig that I grew and gave to you.
Not me, the one who began it all.
I am no longer a necessary part of the story – you have your olive branches.

No. More.

You see, I am lucky now because while I will always extend those branches, while I will always tend the garden that grows them, while I will always make more whenever it runs out,
I have a couple of extra hands to help my load now.
Sturdy hands that will always cradle and catch me, and one of those pairs of hands? They’ve started doing something remarkable.

Every so often, I’ll extend a trembling, shaking branch.
The last in the stack.
I shouldn’t.
I don’t have the strength.
I really can’t afford to give it.
But the greedy, grubby fingers of those who don’t care if I can or can’t are always reaching…

And His hands descend on mine, and cover them easily, engulf them, stopping me from giving it away:
“You can’t, and that’s okay.”
“… I can.”
“You can’t. And that’s okay.”
“Yes. I can.”
“You can’t, and that’s okay.”
“ I. Can!” 
“You. Can’t. And that’s okay.” 
“I… I…”
“You can’t.”
“I can’t.”
“And that’s okay.”
“…”
“And that’s. Okay.” 
“… And… that’s… And that’s okay." 

"Good girl.”

The olive branch I was once extending goes into my own jar that He’s keeping for me.
When He tells me He wants to help, I believe Him.

Sometimes, I can’t, and that’s okay.

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