hope all around me has seemed exceptionally shadowed the past few weeks. the heartbreak of others wrenches my own heart.
our congregation carries the responsibility to care for families admitted to seattle’s children’s hospital and medical center, specifically those living in the ronald mcdonald house. the past month we have had a high number of families there. stranger families. families bearing heavy burdens. families losing their babies.
disease has attacked my friend’s little brother and i pray for him, and his family as if they were my own.
a plane crashed in a foreign land and that distant tragedy is connected to a friend and now i prayer for three motherless children i have never met.
i have not spoken to one of my role models from my teen years in arizona since her wedding reception years ago. she now lives only an hour south of me. last week she gave birth to twins who did not survive. i am now trying to write her an email but words do not come easily.
i am anxiously watching hurricane gustav. it eerily takes me back to the overnight shift at my tv station three years ago as we all waited, helplessly, for katrina.
our friends’ three year old is a living, walking miracle. he survived a drowning and just the thought of what they have and continue to experience make me ache and fight back tears. and yet, the mercy radiated in his sweet face today at church was a testament of all that is good and gracious and just. as he stood in the chapel, in his spiffy blazer and tie, he eagerly flashed an envelope and announced he was going to pay his tithing. a loving father spared him and for that, amidst the horror and despair, is light.
“thy truth has made our prison bright; thy light has dimmed the dying past. we bend beneath thy loving will and seek thy onward, onward path at last.” (text: john a. widstoe; how long oh lord, most holy and true; Isaiah 61: 1-2; D&C 138:11-19, 50-51)