She Didn’t Preach

she didn’t preach.
she opened her purse.

not a bible,
but a frayed hello kitty pouch
with three small stones inside.

”this one’s my favorite,” she said,
holding up a rock
with a crack like a lightning bolt.

i was seated beside her
in her daddy’s tow truck,
cradling a terrified dog
between my knees,

dust in the air,
and something breaking open
in the quiet between us.

she was dirt poor —
but her treasures were priceless.

not because they glittered —
but because she knew their worth.

and the rose quartz in my pocket —
my stone of prayer —
longed to be part of her world.

so i offered it.
no words.
no lessons.
just yes.

she tucked it beside the others
without flinching —
as if love belonged there
all along.

she didn’t preach.

but she preached a gospel
the world forgets to teach —

with three stones,
a quiet voice,
and the trust
to share what mattered most.

not from a pulpit,
but from a tow truck seat,
beside a stranger
who needed to remember —

that holy things
come wrapped in dust
and small hands.