Morning Prayer September 14, 2024

Do not see the horrors of the world. Do not speak the horrors of the world. Listen, listen to the horrors. We only need to listen to know them in our bones. Then we can see. Then we can speak.

Cover your eyes until you hear. Cover your mouth until you hear.

I mean bomb. I mean siren. I mean gun. I mean blade.

I mean hand. I mean voice. I mean footsteps. I mean heartbeat.

I mean fire in wildlands. I mean fire in territories and cities and countries. I mean whole areas turned into carbon. Trees. Structures. Animals. People.

I mean the horror we hear coming and the horror we don’t hear until it’s come, until it’s sitting on our chests, pinning us down. To the bed. To the floor. To the sopping ground.

I mean flames and thermal winds roaring like jet engines, what feels like the whole world rumbling.

I mean horror like bones breaking because horror often breaks bones but also sounds like bones breaking when no bones are broken.

The horror of wrong death, wrong place, wrong time, wrong turn, wrong war, wrong leader, wrong policy, wrong hope, wrong prayer.

The horror of wrong family, wrong father, wrong town, wrong time, wrong words, wrong body, wrong hands, wrong home.

I mean bomb turning brick to sudden dust. I mean siren screaming aimless into night. I mean gun bucking in eager hands. I mean blade causing muscle to burst like distant thunder.

I mean hand turning body into target. I mean voice lulling child into trust. I mean footsteps like percussionists pounding out time. I mean heartbeat like another person inside the chest trying to tear themselves free.

The horror of why. The sound of that question as it sits on the tongue croaking like a toad.

I mean horror as gunshots down a long hall. Then in a room. Then in a library. Then in another room. Then back in the hall.

Horror in the school, in the business, on the base, in the place of worship, in the car, on the street, in the parking lot, in the neighborhood, on the highway, at the train station, on public lands, in the bedroom, at the splash pad.

The always-more of horror. The never-endingness of horror. Our faces like dry pools. Our skin dull as powder. We want no more of this screaming horror.

Now we hear it. Now we don’t. Now we do. Now we don’t. We are children, every one of us, playing games with our senses.

May we listen. May we see. May we speak.