A Test of the Heart

I’m wearing a Holter heart monitor today and I can’t help but wonder if it can see past the irregular beats and witness how wholly broken I am. My arteries, hardened by callousness, carry blood but little warmth. For to feel warmth I must allow myself to feel. To expose myself to shame with only unrighteous anger in my defense.

Will the charts reveal my secrets? Will all my failings be scrawled across the page for my doctor to analyze? Will he be somber when he delivers the news that I’m incurable? Or will he bend his knee and pray for me?

Be well,

Monty

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