Prayers on Wings and Hoofs and Paws
Carmen and Sabeen, a gentle greeting.
Ferguson, Missourri. Gaza and Israel. Iraq. Robin Williams’ suicide. So much sadness. So much injustice. So much right and righteous anger.
I feel both guilty and grateful for this refuge just now.
The guilt comes from some sense – perhaps misguided but very real – that I should be DOING something. Protesting. Marching. Standing beside. More than praying, which is all I find myself able to do much right now.
The gratefulness prevails though because I know this place is the one that allows me to act as I know best – with words – lifted up and handed out.
So I move quietly among the chickens, crouching low to see Curioser tucked into a nesting box. I reach out my left-hand because the chickens love the blue stone of my engagement ring – and I just graze her emerald black feathers with the whorls of my fingers before she moves away, okay, just dozy in that shadow of that box.
I stand at the bedroom window and watch Acorn and Olive tussle for the top of the Igloo in the pasture and see the white faces of two puppies peeking out from the treeline beyond. I sit and lay my cheek against Meander’s flank, hear her snuffle with sleepiness.
And I take comfort and hope and lift it up from among them to the world. A quiet prayer from hooves and paws and wings. Maybe the best thing there is to give and do in the face of much frenzy. A quiet that speaks of that lamb and wolf future where we carry ploughshares.
What do you do in the face of so much injustice, so much grief, so much pain?