Flags hanging low, still and waiting, lining the streets around my town, people still alongside but the drooping flags are outnumbered for the crowds of watchers standing somber and waiting. A Mills River father of two little girls, twenty nine like the father of my two girls, killed in Afghanistan just days ago and these people are waiting for him to come home. And I wept for his babies, for his wife of eight years and whispered thanks for my own soulmate and I’ve loved him eight years, father of my precious babies, safely home after brushing the tornadoes by a hair and sharing my bed again one more blessed night.
Driving my oldest to Kindergarten this morning and I see flags going up again. I think about the small town soldier that just came home to rest, I read about a wicked man finally killed by small town soldiers, bravery at it’s finest, and I feel not jubilation but a heavy heart, pushing into my throat and I can’t voice the thing trying to get out but I ache.
Ache for peace, burn for Shalom. Weep for the loss in Mills River and the mangled Deep South and the real lives that are tossed and twisted up in the wake of huge tragedy. Ache for the pain and pray for comfort to those who weep and have lost.
And pray for shalom.
And God hears.
And so I wait.