The rush of a thousand pores as they stand on edge gave way to anxiety that I can’t help but let out and hopefully let go. I sit here and wonder… was it me who placed this power in their childish hands? Not the child who was taught gentleness as he stroked a mother bird that protected her eggs, but the child who was left to manage his own balloon…. float until he crashed into adulthood. I am responsible. If I ever bring myself to utter words to this child again, it would be my own. This disappointment is unexplainable but not unfathomable. Even Jesus had to give his life to make a point, so why should I sob and ask for mercy? The dullness of my sacrifice makes the pain even more piercing but there’s no blood spilled to be slipped on, just a broken body to jump over or kick to the side. A journey.
Hahah so true >_
Especially when the smart student gets it wrong