“When the Priest Steps Close”

A mark upon the skin, a whisper in the camp, the priest steps close with questions on his lips. Not only flesh is measured but the fragile hush of fear, the tremor of a household learning how to wait.
“Unclean,” the word falls like a bell, then like a shield,  a boundary drawn to guard the tender and the whole. Isolation is not only punishment but a careful hand, a law that names the danger and calls the people back to care.
Between the tent and altar, between the hearth and road, ritual and mercy weave the threads of healing time. Scales of sight and patience weigh the slow return, and hope is read in color, in the fading of a stain.
God who marks and measures also watches over wounds, teaching a people how to hold one another in the waiting, until the day of cleansing, when the door swings wide again, and the community, renewed, sings the name of wholeness.