I was irritated. I noticed the clunky rocks which still needed to be cleared out, lying around in my freshly graded yard. There were un-swept crumbs on my kitchen floor and they bothered me. Not all the dishes sparkled. I sighed at the sight of unwieldy white snowflakes drifting down over clean curbs and black lampposts. It was too, too much. And I noticed rust on the door of my Jeep, that faithful servant of a quarter million miles and I had to go to my job and I had things to do and days in which to do them.
And then the radio was turned on and there was a sixteen year old boy and his mother for whom he had struggled to buy passage from Africa to Europe…fleeing a murderous people and they were thrown off a boat and they drowned.
I my mind I see them survive. I wish them survival. With all my heart I envision them walking away from the turbulent and frightening waters. But I know that we have all lost dreadfully now…and I will walk out to my yard soon and stoop over and pick up dirty stones and thrown them in a box. And I will be silent…
690 Saint Paul 