Bags of Bran


Kyrie Eleison
November 19, 2010, 10:52 pm
Filed under: Biography

We do not grieve as the heathen, who have no hope. Yet we grieve, perhaps more deeply and sincerely than the heathen, for the wounds of the final enemy are cruel and cold. We can acknowledge that death is swallowed up in victory, that it is not final, that we will meet again. In good time, we will embrace and walk in these truths.

For now, we hurt. We are blessed with the privilege.

Break your leg and tell yourself that one day, it won’t hurt anymore: does it lessen the present pain? Don’t pretend.

A little girl passed away about an hour and a half ago. She went peacefully, without struggle or outcry, in the presence of family and friends enjoying one of a few brief moments of happiness that have punctuated these harrowing months of her sickness. Her passing nearly went unnoticed, except by the angel host and the heavenly Father who awaited her, but was evident soon enough. She was oblivious of the drama and fuss surrounding her, oblivious of the incredulity that we mortals stumble through at the initial signs of death, and mercifully oblivious to the sounds that only come from souls wrought upon by griefs beyond expression. Words fall and flee and fail. Frames are shaken to the foundation as the heart bursts in a well-spring.  These are not beautiful sounds: any understanding person who hears them privately wishes he lived in a world where he never had to hear them again, or make them himself, but this is not a life where a soul can make wishes.

There is a place where such griefs no longer touch us, but it is not for those clothed in mortality.

Perhaps only those who have toiled under such a load could understand that sometimes the only prayer you can manage is: Lord, have mercy.

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