It makes me feel like crying, this suffering we do.
The rain pelts the earth; the stratus overlay presses down—and
the burdens within and without are heavy
It doesn’t make sense—all this brokenness.
Well, maybe on one side of the brain, the prickly side. But
the heart knows when redemption seems still far off—and
the earth groans, and
the weak and infirmed groan, and
I groan with all this groaning.
Grey drifts by the waiting room window, the room where loved ones sit and sigh and pray while the infirmed wait, and the world cries for all to be made right.
And the sky rushes earthward, and it weeps the tears of atmosphere and groans for redemption.
Little matchbox cars and trucks off in the distance do what they do and go where they go,
while 6 floors up and 8 miles down, the grey-black troposphere pushes the weight of the world on these lives.
And our time stops as our watches march on, and what matters changes consultation by consultation.
The fog drifts in—in and around cars, buildings, trees, light poles—mundane silhouettes against this pressing vapor,
the rolling something that looks more like an ominous nothing.
And it shadows the fog in my brain in these tenuous times
when what was
in a moment change to the dark that is.
And faith looks for perspective, and faith looks to the sun above these wafting mists
to find grace,
the face of God in lives interrupted.