It has been a long, hard week. One, we will not soon forget.
Monday, runners ran and bombs exploded, atoms split, three died, and we cried.
Tuesday, more explosions, more people gone, up in flames, up in smoke.
Then there’s the doctor, a monster, a maniac, who ran a house of horrors, stitched and sketched from the lining of nightmares.
My husband, my God-fearing husband who is always bent, bent in prayer, on his knees, with his hands all over the word, asked me, “What next?”
And, I wonder…
I wonder will sister sorrow visit our house next?
Will she walk right through our front door?
Will her bare feet pound up and down our hardwood floors?
Will she sit at our supper table, break bread, and dine with us?
Will she crawl in our beds, sleep under our ćovers, and steal our dreams?
We weep and we wonder.
Why do good men die and bad men thrive?
We turn to the book of Job, we sing Psalms, and write lines and lines of Lamentations.
We seek peace and comfort.
We find them both in the foundation of our faith.
We were taught and we believe, when sister sorrow enters in,
the Father and his Son will be there too.
The father who gave us life, formed us from the dirt of the earth, and the breath of his lungs.
The Son of Man who hung on tree, so that someday we can see
a day without tears,
a life without fears,
a place to rest at the end of life’s journey,
Oh, What a Day that will be!