There were times when the stories around me were so big that I knew the only hope was a miracle — often more than one. And so I vowed to clear my own mind and heart and become one with the quiet prayer that had carried me that far.
I vowed to hold the remaining bits of trauma in my heart — knowing they would be transforned into healing words. And I held each new moment as it unfolded.
Words pointed back to miracles past, comforting pieces of my heart and connecting me in each moment to a timeless, unshakeable higher me. But my prayer had no words.
At times I wished the words would come without the sweat and tears. But I somehow sensed the delicate nature of listening with my heart and the importance of feeling my way forward. There was tenderness in knowing the way truth felt and confidence in knowing it so intimately.