Sometimes the words just freeze. It’s not a matter of coaxing—sometimes they cling to the sides of things—hard and inert, unwilling to take shape in the air, content instead to form patterns across the surface of something else.
I’ve been thinking about how brokenness—what is there to say, even? It is there, touching everyone, always, but we get good at hiding it. Sometimes it hits harder, comes out of the shadows and refuses to be ignored. It hits everyone, children included, and sometimes it hits a child you know. And sometimes it draws back and hits someone—a child, even—so hard it sends everyone for miles around reeling.
So you wait for the words to thaw.
And you pray, but your prayers cannot fix it. But you pray.
And you look for ways to help, but your help cannot fix it. But you help, if you can.
And you listen, but your listening cannot fix it. But you listen, anyway.
You try to trust the season, even while you fight the circumstances. You bundle up. You remind yourself that words may freeze, but there are other ways to speak.
Then you do your best to keep the people around you warm.