teach me stillness,

 

They speak in shadows,
sharp like thorns hidden in familiar gardens—
an aunt, a cousin,
voices that bruise without leaving marks.

I stand there,
hands quiet,
heart louder than their words,
wanting to fix what I never broke.

But some storms
are not mine to calm.

So I loosen my grip—
on anger,
on answers,
on the aching need to be understood.

I lift it all upward,
this tangled weight of silence and strain,
and place it gently
into His hands.

Let Him soften what I cannot,
lighten what I cannot reach,
teach them warmth
where cold has taken root.

And me—
teach me stillness,
the kind that does not surrender,
but trusts.

For peace is not found
in changing others,
but in knowing
who holds the power to.