He was quiet as tears slid down his mother’s cheeks.
My boys sleep in this morning and I press my nose to the dining room floor…roll over on my back and stare up at the Christmas tree. I don’t know how to pray about this shedding of innocent blood.
I know what I should say. But God knows the landscape of my heart better than I do myself and instead of words I just let Him hold me gently.
My pastor sent out a heartbreaking prayer and there are words and scriptures and comfort offered all over the internet. But on the day that schoolchildren were senselessly gunned down in their classroom in Connecticut, I went to pick up my son at his school and the front door was propped wide open.
I keep seeing that door in my mind and I want to swing it shut. I want to flip up that doorstop with my toe and hear the satisfying sound of the lock catch.
I know that’s not the way to live so I get up and make homemade biscuits instead. But I cry softly as I run my fingers through the flour—rolling bits of shortening into crumbling flakes. Yesterday, as we drove to his appointment, Teddy and I listened to the news…tried to understand. After a time, he gently turned the dial, plugged in his iPod, and played this song for me. It made no sense except for the title and how the empty feel of the melody gave me permission to cry.
Do not be ashamed of the tears, I told him. Love is strong enough to bear the pain.
Music is a thin skein over grief and we weep with those who weep today.