I sat on the swing next to him, the cold biting my exposed face and fingers. Inwardly my heart burned with hope and hurt. I answered questions to the best of my ability sharing openly about the journey I was on. This young man had been hurt by my lack of faith when young; I didn’t want to hurt him now he was grown by anything called religion. His thoughts felt no less important than my own and I listened with intent. He had his own journey to walk and the only equipment I could offer were the tools of experience shared. Truth once spoken would do its own work. Any wrestling about it was not for me to interfere with. My only job was to love him without judgment. I set my face like flint to do just that.

When it was time to go I linked my arm with his, feeling him tower over me. Reaching out my hand, my grandson willingly grabbed it and I enjoyed the warmth. Walking together I felt my son’s heart; his too burned with hope and hurt to do the right thing by this little boy and by his family. I wanted to assure him mistakes would not come but I kept silent; lies were never helpful no matter how much we wanted them to become true. His son let go of my hand running forward to stomp on the edges of the puddles, making splashes.

Smiling, I enjoyed watching this energy at work. Someone who came before me once made splashes. Looking upward in hope, I asked these splashes would grow into the waves they are meant to be.

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