Grounded near the Water

I want to be the quiet place,the moss that grows against a tree where fire once ran,the river that does not ask  what burned before it learned to flow again.

Some people carry storms in their chests—thunder and fear from hands that should have held,from doors that closed too hard,from names carved into stone too early,from wars that never endedeven after the uniform was folded away.

I want to meet them like a forest does:without judgment,without the counsel of fear,without paths worn thin by pain’s constant repetition—just shade, space and air enough to breathe.

Blessed are those who do not live by the aches that harmed them,who refuse to stand foreverin the footprints of what broke them,who will not sit downand make a home of despair.

Let me be the earth that says,You can sit here.The soil that takes the weight without asking how it got so heavy.

For the child who learned fear before they finish school,let me be the dandelion;small, stubborn, bright—proof that softness survives concrete.

For the one who will always be loved and whose buried,let me be the tide, pulling grief in and out,never rushing the moon.

For the veteran whose sleep still flinches,let me be snowfall—hushing the sharp edges of memory, teaching the night how to rest.

I want to help like water helps; quietly, faithfully—so they may stand like trees planted beside the stream, roots drinking even on the days the sky gives nothing. Filling that quench of thirst.

May you bear fruit in your own season, not sooner, not forced. May your leaves not wither even when the wind remembers everything.

I don’t want to fix what broke. I want to stand beside it like mountains beside valleys,saying nothing, but meaning everything.

Healing doesn’t roar. It grows. It roots. It waits.

And if all I can be is a place near the water where someone learns they are still alive— Lord please let my light be enough!-Brenda