It is a quite Sunday morning on my street with birds gently waking up the neighborhood, and I imagine fathers stretching and moms changing diapers, and the smell of coffee and the giggles of children as I walk past the houses.
But not for 126.
It looks so normal, so Sunday morning-ish.
But two days ago, the son died tragically, a victim of foolishness, lack of control and despair. And yesterday, a father and a mother had to go pick a casket in which to lay his stiffened body.
Their house looks just like it does all of the other days: drawn curtains, cut grass, cars parked neatly in the driveway. But my heart hears the wailing behind those quiet windows.
And my hands feel so helpless in the face of such tragedy.
I slip a note in the mailbox and I call on the Lord for comfort.
Tomorrow, they will bury their son, and their hopes and their dreams for his future and theirs. Tomorrow they will stand in the scorching sun while they lower his body in the hole freshly dug. They will get back in their car and come back to my street, park their car neatly in the driveway, enter the house and close the door behind them. But the son won’t be with them–gone forever.
It will look all so Monday-ish, normal, uneventful. And most of the street won’t even know the difference.
My gut hurts through and through, and I can’t find relief. How do I reach out to my neighbor in mourning when I never took time to talk to them in the normalcy of life?
Oh, I know that my prayers do count; but they are not enough.
Only love played out in the nasties of life will interrupt the cycle of indifference. He said to love my neighbor as myself.
Father, have mercy on me.
Cultivating Thankfulness with Ann Voskamp
#248 the report that the tumor is not cancer
#247 My friend being kept through an accident