Patching Until They Stand

Every builder knows the ritual.

A crack forms in plaster, a seam opens in concrete, a joint pulls apart.

You patch it sometimes for the tenth time because the final fix requires selective demolition, and the structure you are carrying isn't ready to hold itself yet.

So you patch, you shore up and you try your best to maintain stability.

That's what life feels like to me right now.

I wake each morning with the same thought: improve the situation, not for glory, not even for myself, but for the people leaning on me.

I'm the one bracing the beams, slipping shims where the gaps appear, filling voids so the weight doesn't drop on all of us.

The truth is, I don't patch because I believe the crack will disappear forever.

I patch because I believe, eventually, the people I'm holding up will find their own footing.

That day, the wall will stand on its own strength, no longer relying on my steady hand.

It's a strange kind of faith, faith in borrowed stability.

Faith that my work today is enough to keep things upright until tomorrow.

Faith that tomorrow, something will shift, and they will rise steadier than before.

But here's the lesson buried in the dust:

A patch is never permanent. It's an act of love, not finality.

And maybe the wisdom is knowing when to keep patching, and when to step back and let the wall lean into itself.

Field Note:

Every patch buys time. Time is the gift. What they do with it will determine if they ever stand.