Meet me in the place beyond failure. In the heartbreak and humility of a shitty hand of cards. Tell me about the thing you did exactly right that didn’t work, and how you learned that control is an illusion. Because sometimes a child hits his head on the kitchen counter and has to be rushed to the hospital, blood on the backseat, and it’s no one’s fault. Because life is neither tidy, nor fair: cancer coming just two months after a wedding. Tell me you know—really know—that there is no way to protect against heartache, and so you won’t even try. Point to the line in the sand, and say, This is
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