There is a moment of reality that springboards my ideas into a chaotic universe that I must organize. I realize that I suffer from a knee-jerk reaction to write when I am the eyewitness to an event. Writing is safe. It is a mask that protects me from public criticism.
On this particular morning neither the heavy gloom nor the seemingly endless drizzle would stifle my creative yearnings.
There is something exceptionally moving about people’s need to listen to a story. There we were. Huddled as one and engaged; connected ~ the minister, a rabbi and a widow.
As the music played, “You’ll never walk alone” one by one we stood; father, mother, wife, child and friend. Tears streamed down their checks as the clouds opened. Candle light touched candle light to brighten the grieving morning.
Hearts in mourning were comforted by the shared prayers of strangers.
I moved toward the center of the raised stage and faced the audience. I was moved by the generosity of their gazing eyes. My lips formed words that I hoped would wash away their pain. As I spoke, the faces shared suffering and loss. Barriers of bitterness, guilt and exhaustion faded as the candles were extinguished.