It was in the air. The remnants of an event who’s sting continues to burn, the presence of Death now dancing with the veil of hope that encases that place. A crimson flower rested in an unrecognizable name. Gravity felt stronger there. Legs trembled, hearts ached.

It was on his face. The dust of a broken life concealed his features. He sat, stunned, under blinding fluorescence and wiped his bloody face in confusion. Where was his family? Still in the darkness. Trapped in the ruins of a world plagued by destruction and intolerance.

It was in her eyes. He’d broken her, rendered her worthless. She allowed him to define what her worth was, leading her to believe it could only be found in the approval of boys unwilling and unable to care for her deepest, most beautifully woven self: her heart. If only she could see it: her worth. If only she could see where it truly sat. But the loss, the brokenness…It manifested something else.

The air. His face. Her eyes.

Your elbows plummet into your knees, palms to cheeks, back trembling. The embers of anger give birth to rage and you cry out, WHY!

You feel odd for allowing the pain of others to become your own, and sometimes it seems to be a bit too much. Don’t let it devour you. Let it lead you to live in love and gather the people who need that compassion into your presence. Let it be your power, not your burden.