God's Tears

Something different happened when I left the office tonight. Well at least different from the previous two nights.

It was not raining. I simply note that. I am not complaining about the rain.

Places are desperate for rain. Children of God are dying, in part because of drought.

The simple reality is that for last two nights I and many other New Yorkers have made our ways home in the rain; others have endured the rain because they had to work or because they had no place to take shelter.

Tonight, it was overcast and damp when I stepped outside. But not precipitating.

This led to an interesting conversation:

When I was a child, I used to believe that the rain was God crying. That's what my mother said. And I believed her.

Maybe, I said. We certainly give God enough reasons to cry. Look at how we treat each other, what we do to each other.

We do. We do.

We bid each other good-bye and I headed on toward the train.

And then the obvious flaw in that idea occurred to me:

If raindrops are God's tears, it would never stop raining.

See you along the Trail.

Sad and mournful

They lose their fight to hold back tears
as they struggle for the words to say goodbye.
An awkward final embrace, then
a flight attendant gently takes the child's hand.

At jetway entry, the child turns.
From under a mop of yellow curls,
red-rimmed eyes look where the father stands.
Brave waves exchanged,
the child continues toward the plane.

The father steps to the window,
presses his hands, leans his forehead.
To support himself?
To try to pass through the glass?
Condensate forms underneath his nose.
He stares at the plane as passengers embark.

The jetway retracts,
the plan backs away.
Until it disappears from view,
the father's fixed gaze follows.
Then, and only then,
he slowly turns,
rubs his eyes,
and leaves the gate.
Alone.

19 July 2011
Gate C38
Denver International Airport

You were there

It is a day I remember not that well;
a day of death, a day of loss.
I stumbled along in grief and shock.
Barely knowing then what I said or did;
now less will come to mind.
While memories fail,
raw feelings return and tear my soul.
Yet of that fear-filled painful day,
one thing I gratefully recall:
you were there,
you were there through it all.

9 July 2011
Greeley, CO, Estes Park, CO 

The next wave

Without warning,
memories bubble to the surface,
absent faces loom before me,
grief crashes remorselessly into my heart,
rips at my spirit,
reopens unhealed wounds,
provides painful reminders:
words regretted as they passed my lips,
unsaid words forever rued,
deeds neglected,
love denied.
Shortcomings, missteps,
failures, and betrayals
wash through my memory,
flood my mind.
Tears flow freely
as I slowly,
painfully
rebuild my defenses
until the next wave,
until the next wave.

10 June 2011
Shire on the Hudson

Grief

Does it ever really heal?

Or do we merely
muddle through
carry on
make due;
while it lies beneath the surface,
sometimes shallow,
sometimes deep,
always present,
ever there,
patiently waiting the next loss,
the unexpected reminder,
the anticipated anniversary
that rips our heart and tears our soul
and reconnects with endured pains, reopens past wounds,
so that incomprehensibly, inevitably
each loss
becomes every loss
haunting us
until we can again
muddle through
carry on
make due
and await
the repeating cycle.