Despite the clear blue sky, gentle breeze, and perfect 75-degree weather, my chest felt tight.

I had such a desire to get this tension outside of myself. I wanted it to go away. A walk, a prayer or using words would normally help move this sensation through and then out of my body, but not today.

The feeling wouldn’t budge. It just sat right on top and around my heart almost demanding me to pay attention.

We sat cross-legged across from each other on the astroturf of my parent’s backyard. Her face seemed a bit drawn, less bright than usual. She was normally talkative or silly or inquisitive. Something told me to let the silence connect us.

My eight-year-old niece Hazel.

At 41, I have yet to have biological children. And, I have come to notice and giggle at the confused look on people’s faces when they ask: “Do you have kids?” On occasion, I roll with it and reply with an emphatic: “Well, sort of. Well, yes. Yes, I do.” Sometimes, I’ll tell Hazel that she is my first baby. The first baby I ever loved. She usually looks at me and says: “Ok, Emily!” and runs off to play. Her parents have been so generous in allowing our connection to grow.

Occasionally, I have opportunity to pick her and her sister up at school. I’ve come to appreciate this as a sort of ritual. There’s an anticipation in the air as families wait to embrace and hear about the day - who said what, what was learned, did you like your lunch, what about recess? Teachers smile and talk, parents say hello, perhaps tending to emails and texts on their phones in between the hugs and chitchat. Joy and love abound.

Sitting with Hazel after school in the backyard on this clear Texas day felt different. We didn’t have words.

What had her teachers told her? What did she know?

Earlier at school pickup, I noticed for the first time a black metal fence surrounding the perimeter of the entire schoolyard. I hadn’t been to the school in a while. In light of our nation’s recent events, protective measures were being instated. I was both glad and sad. About the same time, Hazel handed me a letter and said, “Give this to Mommy.” Her school had been on lockdown that day. Everyone was safe but a nearby threat had forced administrators to take precautions. It felt like someone was sitting on my chest. Was this anger, despair, helplessness, love? The pressure was mounting. What am I supposed to do?!?! How are we supposed to protect her?!

Then, in the silence with Hazel in the backyard of my parent’s house - a little tear began to emerge out of just one corner of one eye. I heard a gentle whisper inside say:

“Be with this pain. Weep with those who weep. It is okay to feel this. You need to feel this pain.”

I do not know if Hazel saw my tear. But about the time it rolled down my cheek she exclaimed: “Let’s play a game!” In retrospect, it is as if we held our own little silent prayer time together that day on the fake grass. No words needed. And then with her childlike wisdom and in her deepest knowing, invited me to play, to keep going. I am grateful for that day and time for many reasons. The tension in my chest is still present, though it comes and goes. I’m looking at it now as an invitation to enter into the broken places of our world, to pay attention to what is going on out there and inside of myself, not as something to wish or pray away. I’m trying to see this pain as a gift, a way to feel what others are feeling, moving me to a place of question and prayer What is mine to do God? I do not know yet.

But I will continue to ask. And in the meantime, precious, dear Hazel will remind me of the best part of me and us. The childlike part that is true and good and loving. The part that is love.

Philippians 4:8 says, “Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, dwell on these things.” Let's take a look at what it means to dwell on these things.

In Christ’s Holy name, Amen.

A loving-kindness meditation

Find a favorite spot. Perhaps a chair, a soft patch of grass or maybe a safe walking path. Grab some tea, coffee or water for refreshment.

Although it might be unfamiliar, consider yourself. Think about a time in your life, where you felt like yourself. Who was there, what part of you felt pure and childlike and good? Name this part.

Give thanks to and for this part. Who has noticed it? Give thanks to and for these people.

How does this part bring light and healing to you? How does it bring light and healing to others? What does this part need?

Who and what might need this part? What might this best part of you need? Name those needs.

Give thanks to God for this precious part of you and invite God to heal any wounding this part might have experienced.

*The accompanying notecard was written by Emily’s niece Hazel.