An involuntary delighted whisper escapes from my lips when I catch a glimpse of the glowing almost-full moon high in the southeastern sky from the window in my den. Now it is spring, and that makes two delights first thing in the morning, and I’ve yet to take my first sip of Chai of the Tiger tea.
Now the dogs are asleep beside me on the sofa and I struggle to know how to pray. Gratitude, yes. Petition, yes, there’s that particular thing, too. But the rest? I’m stuck. There’s so much I don’t understand. Burdens are heavy and we’ve all been carrying them for so, so long. My heart hurts for people. I grow indignant at situations. I seek answers where there are none forthcoming.
The Tower of Babel of information we’ve built is crumbling. It had to. We should have known it. We’re drowning trying to drink from the firehose of news and current events and, as we try to sort out fact from fiction, people are dying. The social media experiment has created a population of rabid right-fighters who take no prisoners in insulting and vilifying those they deem “other”. We hesitate to speak our truth from fear of being cancelled.
So we form tribes.
They become warring tribes and there are casualties.
And now it seems like the only thing to hold onto is the wonder of a glowing orb in the sky and the certainty of spring because, despite the tsunami of information we’re being tossed around in, there are no answers.
Just more questions.
And hunger for wisdom.
When words seem inadequate there is contemplation. Raised hands. Open hearts. Listening ears. These, even now, in the midst of deep and prolonged sorrow.
Now it is spring and signs of resurrected life will soon abound. When we don’t know how to pray, we will bury a tiny seed in the earth, hope, and wait for life to spring forth.