She sits on the kitchen chair, her knees drawn up against her chair, and weeps.
I want to be the Fairy Godmother, want to wave a magic wand and make it all better, make a boy like her and not her cousin, make that same boy stop flirting with her and breaking her heart, make her not care what he says or does in the first place, make it all stop.
But that is impossible.
I put my arms around her and kiss her head.
She was an easy baby; this part is so much harder. She has a well-resourced, well-educated mother, a person who cares for others for a living, but this mother simply cannot say the right thing. To say the right thing is impossible.
Perhaps there is no right thing to say.
She sobs. I hug her again and make comforting noises. She sobs some more.
Then, the storm passes. She gets up and walks across the room. "I feel better now."
That makes one of us.
I scrub a frying pan while she leans against the kitchen counter, still blowing her nose.We unpack the experience, the pastor and the perhaps future pastor. She tells me what sort of things she would like to hear when she is upset.
I know these are the things I've said. But convincing her? Impossible.