A Small Light for a Heavy Night
Tonight feels loud with sorrow. So I’m lighting a small candle and setting it in the window of this page—a quiet place for breath, for dignity, for the stubborn practice of peace.
To the grieving:
May love, like warm cloth, wrap the places that ache. You are not alone. We stand guard with you in the dark.
To the shocked:
When the ground tilts, steady yourself on what is true: every person carries an unrepeatable sky inside. Hold to that. Let it keep you human.
To the angry and those who choose cruelty:
Your words are weather. They can scorch or they can soften. Choose mercy. The world doesn’t need more fire—it needs water.
What peace looks like today (small, practical, real):
Speak to each other as if the future is listening—because it is.
Refuse the easy share if it dehumanizes someone.
Check on a neighbor. Feed someone. Pray, breathe, write, walk.
Replace one harsh sentence with one gentle act.
Keep your heart porous to hope.
I believe in a better vocabulary for our days—one made of patience, courage, and the holy ordinary work of caring for one another. Peace is not passive. It is a practice. And tonight, we have to practice.
I am leaving these words here like a candle in the window. If it finds you, take what you need.
