No Words

Only sadness.

It was as if the weather knew.

Gusts of wet soaked black umbrellas and turned them inside out. Pedestrians wrestled them in defeat. Then splashed a hurried pace, seeking warm, dry cover. It was a nasty Middle Eastern morning. We watched from our second floor balcony window as heavy Spring downpours drowned out the honking below.

What the clouds, wind, and rain understood was that today was a day of mourning. No official had to announce it. For every Israeli already knew. Waking up with dread, stomachs tightened while trying to down their breakfasts. No one spoke.

For you see a mommy, two red haired little boys, and someone else’s too-skinny grandfather called Oded, all returned home. But it was 500 days too late. Nothing will bring them back to life, back to their families.

Their brutalized bodies lay in closed caskets. They were celebrated out of Gaza. “Victory - kill the Jews,” chanted the local culture of death. They seemed to enjoy the show, bringing their families out to watch and cheer as if a black demon circus had come to town.

Weeping Israelis lined the roadsides. Thousands stood for hours in the deluge. Blue and white flags nearly flapped off their hand held poles in the swift air. Military uniformed stood to attention and saluted as they passed by. Honor and grief rolled down their chilled cheeks.

What a time to be here.

It is a twisted kind of honor to observe a nation enshrouded in such intense pain.

Abba use us. May we be your comfort bringers.

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#ilovelucy #prayforhertodaytoo

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