By: Darrelyn L. Tutt

She rocks back and forth incessantly;
A vivid, unforgettable image in my child's mind.
Peering at her, stealing forbidden glances, I watch her from across the room.
It's like she's not there and yet she's very much there.
The development of her life and story is shrouded in secrecy and hushed whispers.
A button-up faded, flowered housedress drapes her fragile ancient skin.
Her white hair is curled and uncombed.
Her eyes are haunting and blood shot.
She keeps her head down swaying rhythmically in a pattern all her own.
 She never stops rocking,
And the people never stop talking ...
Long enough to hear.
Once in awhile, the sounds of a captive wounded soul escape and the eyes dart wildly about, but most of the time she's a reclusive shell in constant and continual swaying motion.
A human shell in possession of some sort of hell within.
She was my great-grandmother.
Her name was Gina.
Every life has a story,
Carries its own rhythm of pain.
An incessant, internal rocking, hidden by mortal frame.
And the Father's incessant, never-ending love,
Receiving the "rocking soul" into His holy frame.
Gathering, enfolding, and holding.
Protecting, hiding, and healing.
And the soul that's rocked in the Father's love shall never love the same.
Such soul shall learn to love ...
In heightened way.
"A bruised reed shall He not break, and the smoking flax shall He not quench; He shall bring forth judgment and truth. 
He shall not fail ..."
Isaiah 42:3,4