One of the kids in our Harry Potter club, a third grader, wanted to know:
“Mrs. Haley, if you could do any of the magic, what would it be?”
That’s an easy one.
“Healing,” I say.
The children think I mean “episkey,” the little mending of a broken nose or split lip (its name coming from Greek for ‘repair’).
But I mean the healing song.
The one without words, that puts the maimed, the mortally wounded, back together; the song that knits gaping wounds closed.
In the books, the strange song, invented by Professor Snape—perhaps the ultimate antihero—heals devastating physical wounds. They’re obvious; the injured people lie around bleeding profusely.
So many people walk around in the real world just as wounded, emotionally, spiritually, mentally.
Sometimes it is obvious.
Sometimes it is not.
I am not a magical character in a fantasy series nor a trained medical professional. I am no alchemist, apothecary, or angel. I cannot dispense healing.
But I write.
My words don’t grant healing, but maybe they can stir hope of it.
I can listen.
I don’t have a healing song, but I can have a hearing heart.
I can be still.
I can be a pocket of calm inside a world of clamor.
It’s not in my power to fix broken hearts, broken spirits, broken minds, broken families. If I could, I would have done so for many I’ve loved.
I can only be a presence, a voice, an encouragement to be strong in the broken places.
—That is what I wish, children.