I used to think I had to save you.

It was the standard setup. You came to me with your stuff and I, the “all-knowing,” would listen and advise. It’s the stuff of movies and ministry fairytales. But you were already aware enough to know the answers and to tell me when my answers were off base.

So I often wondered why you came, why you kept making the time for me to hear you, if I couldn’t heal you. And I wanted to dig deeper, to pry off more layers. But I didn’t. Because I was sure I wouldn’t be able to fix you. And somewhere in all that messiness of insecurity, I stopped taking time to make time so that we could talk. I got scared. If only I had let you be. If only I had…