This week has been hard. We’ve moved through emotions of











Where are you today? What can you confess as the highest riding emotions and thoughts surrounding two young men, in a country not their own, bombing an event of courage and strength, catching the innocent with shrapnel, taking lives, endangering so very many people?

I am not in Boston. I did not lose one close to me. I’ve watched from afar as my own reactions were on lock down.

Do I dare feel what I feel? Disgust at what one human is willing to do to another?

Do I dare voice what I want to lean into? That we are to love our enemies? A woman and mother of young children who I follow on facebook wrote two things this week: 1) that she had to explain why someone would make a bomb and kill a little boy, 2) what would this world look like if we who follow Jesus actually followed Jesus and loved our enemies?

Indeed: why and what would.

I can only offer up this prayer.


O God on high,

Come down to us.

We have heard your echos as we watched courage run toward disaster, as we watched focused efforts to limit more trauma.

Can we get a little more here, please?

A mother must bury a child who is labeled a terrorist, must face her own whereabouts as her 19 year old holds the world’s hate in his hands.

A runner must relearn life without limbs.

A family must do something with a gaping hole left by their 8 year old son, who had just been cheering Dad across the finish line.

If we are your hands in this world, what do we do when all of our hands feel stained? What if the hate and disbelief do not wash off, instead, sticks to our flesh like blasts of gore. Do we really want to wash them clean?

Know us.

Love us.

Heal us.


My enemy is not just a young boy from Chechnya, a country I couldn’t even spell until two days ago. But he is an enemy. My enemy may be my neighbor on any other day, as I am burnt with their vociferous hate, their spewed righteousness, their unending desire for revenge in the name of something nameless.

You are our Name. You, O Creator Redeemer Sustainer are more than we can comprehend, in a week that we cannot comprehend.

So, here are my hands, opened to you, to my neighbor, to that grieving mother, to those who build bombs and those who are blasted away. May the stains of sorrow and hope be not washed away too soon.


Trustingly, within incomprehension, we pray. Amen.

(copywrite 2013)


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