Words. Just a collection of syllables and sounds. Yet sometimes they are all we have. 

 

Friends recently landed with a thud. A diagnosis stomped into their life like a rhino, pushing aside decisions like what to have for dinner and where to celebrate Thanksgiving. Another woman has been caring for her grandchild, although the physical demands are taxing for her. Others are still recovering from weather gone wild. One person on my prayer watch has been a woman whose baby was keeping her waiting. But he has finally made an entrance, and impatience is replaced by kisses. 

 

What good is it, these words? When what I want to do is power wash the cancer away, or sing a lullaby. Why are we all hamstrung, facing foes that answer to no one? Well, surgeons have their scalpels, and FEMA wastes no time bringing bread. 

 

Some people say that words do matter. Sentiments arrive like a bouquet, fragrant with emotion. One man, whose angst about the disease morphed his innards into a pretzel, was calmed by a phone call. A voice, carried across the cavernous divide. Sentences, having the capacity to bring two people closer, no matter what distance google maps claims. 

 

"Thought brings presence" is a notion I cling to like a security blanket. It tells me that I can blast through miles with nothing but my love as wings.