I woke this morning
to a message from my brother,
800 miles away.
“Are you guys okay?”
He had heard some news
about our city.
I had to search the web
to find out why.
A man was shot and killed by police.
Later that night, people took to the streets,
protesting the police, throwing rocks at windows,
setting things on fire.
While I slept, our city made news.
“Yes, we’re fine,” I told him.
“We live outside the city.”
But in the city are friends.
My husband’s workplace.
Tonight, while I sleep,
he will drive into the city
to start his work day.
Is it selfish to want to pray for his protection?
Why should we find favor with God,
if that’s even how prayer works,
when so many others do not survive the night?
The city might burn again tonight
while I sleep.
It makes a difference when the blaze
touches places you know and love.
It is not for me to decide innocence or guilt.
I don’t have all the information.
It IS for me to lament.
To grieve.
To cry and to wail.
That while we sleep
the world burns
and sometimes we don’t even notice.
(Photo NOT taken in Lancaster, PA.)
