Tears like Rain and Laughter like Sunshine

With all our brokenness, we still gather. We come together in one common place, the house of a shattered childhood and broken dreams. A house with walls that are beautiful to behold, but are crumbling to pieces from all the bitterness and grudges they must hold. We all hope that the ground we stand upon is sacred. Sacred against scars and blood. That for a few happy hours, there will be forgiveness, mercy, and tolerance. We can only hope.

Labor day weekend. The one day we pray for sun and the clouds begin to billow in from all directions. The sky seems to sense the turmoil. Yet the Sun fights back the thunder. A sprinkle here, and a dry spell there. The clouds can't seem to make up there mind. Whether to storm or to subside. To give way to the suns laughing face, or to pour rain on her bright lights. The confusion in the clouds matches and mixes with the atmosphere of the house. It stands tired and weary, ready for rain or sun, hardly daring to hope that the storms will be merciful. She saw the Black Moon last night. She saw its glow diminish as the storm clouds thundered their chariots to cover her eyes. She has no hope. Except for one faint glimmer. There is hope in the hearts of those who have communed with the Creator, and supped with the Sun. Who have eaten their fill of the bread of peace and the cup of love. Their hearts are filled with a peace, and they pray that like soft warm sunlight, his Spirit will dry up the condensation that leaks in through the walls.

Geese fly overhead. They call out to one another, singing songs only they know and keeping their families close by. They are flying away from the storm. I watch their flight away from this place. This is not my time to run. It is the time for the quiet fight. Against all the desperation, against all the words that stab like knives, and against my own selfish wants and wishes for the day. It begins to rain. Like a melancholy tune, it weeps in our ear. Like the anger inside, it pelts the ground with fury. Like a cleansing, it clears our minds and refreshes the ground. How fitting that it should rain.

Cars roll in slowly, one by one. Hesitating, remembering the wounds they've received before, they park in the flooding driveway. Like gentle arms, the rain forces them to gather together. They cannot wait for long without the rain penetrating their skin. The noise of the rain fills the air, and fills up the empty spaces where we gather. I slip out for a moment of solitude. With my back against the white wood panels of the garage wall, the rain dripping off the gutter, and my hands outstretched, I let the rain slip through my hands and fingers. Somewhere behind the rain and heavy mist, the sky is blue and the sun is laughing. As the children file out of the cars beaded with water, they stretch their hands to the sky and laugh.

Feelings of rejection and recoil are not far away. But somehow the mantle of distrust is set aside for another day. The taste of bitterness still lingers on our tongue, but we swallow it with our food prepared over the fire of sacrifice. Mercy tempers the sky, and the clouds are swept away like a curtain. The sun shows her face for a few moments, like a sigh of somber relief. Then as soon as the laughter of the children rings and the smiles of the older ones begin to spread, the storm clouds gather once more. Everyone is brought inside the house. The house who somehow has lifted her head. The Spirit sweeps through the walls to help her hold on for just one more day.

The children play. They play without acknowledging the pain. Without remembering the separations of the past. They laugh when someone is funny, and for a few hours live in harmony. For a few precious hours, they are merely children without a present future or past. The only thing that matters is who is "it" and when they will strike. The only thing that matters is that no one is injured or crying. The only thing that matters is that everyone is fed. The only thing that matters is they are children and they are together.

The crowd breaks down back into their own cars, their own lives, their own songs. The streaky windows conceal their faces. And like the end of a tune, the cars spin their wheels and drive away, the noise fading into the distance. The noise inside the house dies down. The air is filled with the after sound of rain, and the moon hums a chill into the night air. With goodbyes and goodnights and hugs a thousand times, the day is over, the rain is quiet and the night barely breaths. We fill our lungs with its song, unaware of the beatiful blue symphony of which we have just been a part.