I do not hold the cure,
nor the answer,
nor the strength to mend what’s broken,
but I know the One who does.

In silence, then,
deeper than my knowing,
I lift your name to God
like a fragile flame in trembling hands,
to the altar of mercy.

Not to fix,
but to carry.
Not to control,
but to surrender.

In this offering,
somehow,
your pain becomes mine,
and my soul finds healing too.

The distance between us
grows thin with grace,
as heaven bends low
to listen.

Even if nothing changes
the way we hope,
everything changes
the way love works.

Prayer is not escape,
but participation,
a quiet defiance of despair,
a declaration
that you are not forgotten.

And perhaps that,
in the end,
is the first miracle.