After a week in Denver, we now find ourselves in my parent’s farmhouse in Kansas, miles away from the nearest neighbor. Here the lights of the city are too far away to pollute the night sky. Quiet overtakes if we forget to speak. Here we will be forced to remember, to cry, to heal.
We’ll have to push aside the guilt of having the luxury of removing ourselves from the rubble and struggle to sit in the land of plenty and convenience, creating space for healing. We removed ourselves to take care of our family. We did so out of necessity. We do so in order to better serve in days ahead.
So we’ll face the quiet, drudge up the images, remember the faces, cry the tears, and question the heavens. We’ll humble ourselves to be the recipients of good-will and charity. We’ll heal ourselves and our family.
And then we’ll organize. Plan. Rebuild. Join forces. Get to work. Because the longer we are away, the harder our hearts pull us back.
A Song of Hope and Peace for the New Year
4 days ago
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