She wandered down to the stream. A frozen creek. In the summer it ran north to south with water pushing over stones and limbs. Flowers on both sides. Yellows, blues, reds, orange, colors for miles. Hawks would fly over.

Years ago, she fished in this small body of water. It was in vain. There were no fish in that creek. Deep down inside she knew that. But, it was a ritual. The casting of the line. Watching the red and white bobber float on the surface. It never went down.

And now she stands over the frozen water skipping rocks on ice. This was the practice of winter. Throwing rocks and talks with God. It pleased her. She’d pray as the evening sun went down. A simple prayer of peace.

Tomorrow 100,000 troops will be lined at the border. Trucks and guns and launchers and young men old enough to be her sons will stand and wait for orders from a man who knows no peace.

Does God hear prayers? She wondered.