When I was younger, there was a place near my home. A local interest for bored teenagers looking for adventure. Down a long, winding, narrow logging road was a single grave hidden in the trees. The grave was for a young girl and the story was that if you brought a toy to this girls grave--aptly named The Little Girls Grave--then she would thank you as you drove away, leaving hand prints on the back of your car window. It was a well known and unprotected place. There were no town-ordered regulations, no attempt at preservation. I wonder now if it was only us as children who really knew about it. Yet, even as a destination for the bored and underwhelmed, the grave remained cared for. Always surrounded by toys and items, placed in a way to shelter them from the weather. Cleaned and maintained. All by the hands of children. All by the hands of those same children who, at other times, would destroy both property and themselves. The grave was a sign of the respect and reverence we possessed, somewhere deep inside of ourselves, that needed only the right object to bestow it on. 

The grave was later moved as the road was expanded. And the loss of that site was heart wrenching.

It is those moments when you see what the hands of those accused and condemned are capable of. Those moments of good acts from those of bad names. How can you do anything but feel impossible love? How can you do anything but want to take those hands and thank them, and assure them, and tell them that they are incredible beings? It is only through them that you can see anything worth loving at all. 

Do you understand now?