Sunday, May 08, 2005

• The Cry

  "And we cried out to the Holy One, the god of our ancestors, and the Holy One heard our voice, and witnessed on our affliction, and our labour, and our oppression. And the Holy One brought us forth out of the Place of Constriction with a strong hand and an outstretched arm."
  The Passover Hagaddah

  The storm hit.  This is what I need to do.  My God, this is the cry.  I can't bear hold it in anymore.  It has to come out.

  So I'm crying finally, but who can hear?  I cry out like the Israelites under slavery, and somehow the god that made a promise takes heed. Oh, You. You You You You You.  You can hear.  You can see.  I'm eight years old hiding in the closet again in the middle of the night, pushing away the knowledge of what is happening to me.  But the truth closes in.  I'm trapped between the lie I wake up with in the morning and the uknowable truth I encounter every night.  The closet door opens as it inevitably does.  But this time it's You.  Because You saw.  You heard.  You extend Your hand, hand of strength, hand of comfort.  Hand of redemption.

  I'm going to need a lot of help.  I'm still the pitiful orphan girl that was my great-grandmother, still at the mercy of communal good will.  How many people will need to help clean up this mess?  How many, how much, to heal this devastation?  Way more than one therapist, way more than forty-five minutes a week.  And a lot of money.  Devastation bankrupts.

  Back to gateway.

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