All Write, Already!

He doesn't ask. Nor does He command. He just... borrows... for a time.

I still remember the first time. It was about a month after His death. I don't remember the exact date, but you can look it up in the papers.

The girl would have died if He hadn't borrowed. The man had already bloodied her lip and broken her wrist, and he wouldn't have stopped. But I was there, and so was He. And He borrowed me, and He made it right.

She had so little, and what she had was so wrong. And He returned more than she had before. Before, she had a life of fear; now, she has a life of hope. Before, she had her husband's addictions, and now she has his life insurance money, and a chance to start over.

Before, she had her husband's life. Now, she has a new life growing inside her. One that does not beat her, one that does not spend her life's blood on drugs. And one that is truly of her, not trying to make her its own.

I wouldn't have even seen them if He had not borrowed my eyes. Even if I had, I wouldn't have had the courage to act, if He had not borrowed my heart. And I never could have borrowed life, or returned life, had my life not first been borrowed.

But it has come to an end. They say I committed crimes. Crimes, they call them -- something they never were, even had they been mine to commit. Tomorrow I am to die, and He will not borrow again. I once wept at the thought, for there is so much still to borrow, and so much more to return. But tonight, He borrowed my heart one last time, and returned it full.

So although I know you must go, I'd like to ask one last favor.

I'd like to borrow something from you.