The Morning After

It's raining, he said. That's fitting. 

I agreed. 

But, he said, either way, it was always supposed to rain today. No matter what happened. Today, they called for rain.

It's raining. It's raining tears for those afraid and in pain, tears of those who feel vindication and joy, tears of anguish, tears of relief. 

We've got all manner of tears in America this morning. 

It is fitting that it rains. 

My house gets loud and noisy at the best of times, and deafening and cacophonous at the worst. Because silence, as Richard Rohr has said, is God's first language, we started a tradition. After praying before a meal, we ring the singing bowl and wait until its song is complete before we speak. Whoever rings the bowl waits until the sound is so faint it can hardly be heard, announces a loud AMEN, and the noise and chatter resumes. But for a moment, it is silent. 

Together, once a day, we gather and listen to God speak to us in his native tongue. 

Last night, my wise husband said that our nation needed a moment with the singing bowl, that one of our sons needs to hit that bowl so firmly, so intensely, that all Americans, those that supported him and those that supported her and those that supported neither, could all hear the chime and take a moment to regroup in the silence. 

We all need a moment to be quiet.

We need to remember who we are. 

It has been a loud, hateful, horrible season. The cacophony is deafening. We are bad at being quiet and even worse at remembering. 

We must remember. 

We are known. We are seen. We are loved. 

We belong to each other.

Get quiet today. Spend some time with the one who knows how to speak in the silence. 


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