I’ve been quiet, silent really, for months. I don’t have much to say these days. I spend time with my niece, and I run by the river, feel the sun on my face and thank God with every footfall – every exhale – that I am able to do something that last year the doctors said I would never do again. Most days running is my prayer.
I couldn’t do it today, couldn’t run because before I’d tied my laces, I turned toward the TV, coffee cup in hand, ready to listen to the morning barbs aimed at Washington, D.C., ready to snort in disgust at our narrow focus. And then, well, then you already know what I saw and heard. Probably much like you, I froze, then sank to the sofa in disbelief thinking, Not again. Not in church where we are supposed to feel safe. And, Dear God, not children. But then I guess, we are supposed to feel safe in schools, in movie theatres, in restaurants, at concerts. And I guess we are supposed to be able to trust that our children in this country will not be cut down by violence. I did not rant; I did not rave. Instead I cried.
Are tears powerful? Will tears change anything? Ranting and raving never does. If enough of us weep, if enough of us say we are broken, that we cannot go on like this, maybe something that is desperately wrong, horribly dark in our collective soul will be pushed aside by the Light that lays buried, waiting to be invited back into the places it is meant to live.
Let’s remember who we are; let’s remember who we were created to be. Then, let’s be that – together. Only together can we remember that all lives matter.
The Unexpected Life 