Thursday, April 7, 2011

Sorrow and Trust

Spring is here. The days are becoming longer and warmer. The buds are on even the most stubborn trees.

I awoke this morning to the sounds of civil wars in Ivory Coast and Libya on the radio news.

I prayed.

As I began my work, I checked the Facebook news feed. Someone had just posted that an earthquake had hit Japan again. O how awful! I turned on the TV news.

It was not so bad: "only" a 7.4, and the approaching Tsunami was supposed to be small. I kept the TV on while I went through the morning routine. No one else was at home: Eileen and the kids were at Montessori school.

I wasn't feeling well. I put the laptop aside, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes.

Later in the afternoon, I went to an already scheduled doctor's appointment, returned home, and read stories to Josefina. She is getting so big that she almost doesn't fit in the chair with me anymore. Afterwards we played cards: her version of "War" in which she looks through her cards and gives me all her kings, because "I don't like kings." But she wanted to keep her queens. She likes queens.

I was feeling better. I took the laptop and did some more work. Then I checked the Facebook news feed. A friend's father had just died. Oh no. What could I do? I prayed. I felt sorrow. What a mysterious thing it is to be human. I am drawn to share the sorrows of others--strangers halfway around the world or good friends close to home. I want to share their sorrows, in the different ways that I can.

Some other friends were having different problems. Asking for prayers. One of the things I find myself doing most consistently on Facebook is praying for people.

John Paul and Agnese weren't feeling well. They had gone to school but were now dragging themselves around. We had dinner. Eileen was tired, but still on her feet. We had some good conversation earlier in the day. Thank God for her.

We said the rosary. John Paul put on the baseball game, and I watched it with glassy eyes. The government is in danger of shutting down; the active military will not be paid; people will be laid off. I felt angry. Another human mystery: the revolt of the heart against injustice. What a day!

The sun set peacefully.

Now it is night. Eileen and I have prayed together and she has gone to bed. And I am here, wondering aloud about the world: the great big world made up of so many people, so much life and hope and struggle and sorrow; our world of friends, wounded by a loss that brings great sorrow to a few and touches us all; the little world that is now silent within the walls of my house, this precious family and my frailty, my need to find my balance, to stick with the program, to do what I need to do to get well.

Jesus, if I don't trust in You, what do I have? Where else can I go? What can any of us do, if not abandon ourselves into the arms of a loving and merciful God? Jesus, I am so glad that You have a face, that You are in the world, that You are in my world. These are my words at the end of this day: "Jesus, I trust in You."