Delivery

  There's no easy way to do this, no road that is straight and narrow, no path that lends itself to a weary traveler's feet. Instead, the route she must take is covered with sharp stones of doubt, stinging nettles of pride, thistles made of frustration and glass shards of sharp impatience that pierce her tender and unsuspecting feet.
  Yet she treads on, because she knows that at the end of it, this will all be worth it.
  At least, she hopes.
  It's uphill, this part. There's no grass to cushion the trek, and the bottom of her feet are bleeding now, because sometimes emotions and words and fears cause just as much pain as actual wounds. As she stoops down to staunch the blood, she almost drops her package, causing her to gasp and clutch frantically at the object wrapped brightly in shiny paper, contrasting almost garishly with the stark empty background that surrounds her.
  It is all she can do not to let out a sob. But she knows that her cry will be greeted simply by solitude and silence, some of her most enduring partners in this seemingly unending journey.
  When she started out, it didn't seem so horribly hopeless. Others had made the climb. They had reached the top, delivered their gifts. Did their feet bleed? Did fears plague their every step? Did they cry out in despair?
  She drops to the ground, knees crumpling in the dust as clouds of dirt envelop her tired body and welcome her to the burial ground of defeat where so many others have abandoned their journey, stealing silently back to the foot of the mountain, carrying their gifts, shame piggy-backing on their broken down shoulders.
  Hands. Strong, firm, gentle. Hands that pick her up, set her right, relieve her of her package, heal her wounds, replenish her soul. Hands that open the package meant for them. The package the Ordinary Princess had wrapped so carefully and thoughtfully. Hands that willingly receive her gift.
  The gift of her life and her control and her stubbornness and her will to be perfect. She was giving it all to Him. Wrapped in the shiny package meant for her Lord and her Savior and her King. It wasn't much. Not nearly enough to pay Him back for what He gave her. But it was what she had.
  And so she sat on that mountain, and she surrendered into the hands of the King her thoughts and her problems and her trepidations. Because it was what she had to give. It was all of her. And it belonged entirely, thoroughly, undeniably to Him.