In the Midst of the Fire

In the midst of the fire, on the slope of the North Face, I went on to be an explorer, a geographical surveyor. 

[I wrote these words in 2009 as I began a battle of dark exile.  The infamous sheer, frozen North Face with its screaming, icy winds are certainly no metaphor for healing—at least not usually.  But that is what is happening for me.  I was shocked at how crowded the trails are.  Sometimes as I pass a climber all we can do is nod at each other for each of us is frightfully clinging to every ledge, to every finger hold, to every toe hold available. Marine!:

After the war and paupers’ burials, we had more time for reflection and ritual.  Across the river, beneath the columned buildings, a forgotten man---honorably discharged.  I watched the small, older group quietly move in step, listened to the weeping chords with Taps on that cold November day in Arlington National Cemetery.  I was there for architecture and building; so, after respectful silence I remained to survey alone.

   Thus, another, so soon, was not easy to see, to take, as the larger marching group moved in, dress blues, cadenced drums, snapping orders, replacing the throbbing solitude.  It was not possible to ignore these people. Most were young.  On this cold day, November 6, 2009, they buried their own; Capt. David Seth Mitchell, USMC, 30 years old, killed in action in Afghanistan on October 26, 2009.  There were tears on war torn faces of the men in dress blue and a break in the chords of Taps.

 Jesus, give us, I begged, the wisdom and strength to get through this terrible wilderness.

I understood that we must be kind for every soul endures great suffering of its own, that we must have great love for each soul, beginning with the elect for His steps were always in compassion, mercy and Love.  

Each soul is a universe of its own.

  We must be sensitive to our neighbors’ sufferings whether of body, mind or soul.  You, O God, act toward us as we act toward others.  We must pray for great wisdom, prudence and love in dealing with others.  Silence is a powerful weapon, a language all its own. Interactions must be seasoned with encouragement.  We must never tritely interfere with the consciences of others.  A priest has the grace, bound to sacred secrecy, to hold in silent love the soul of another when that soul pours out his or her soul.

  

 I was not aware, until thrust into this storm, that souls are so closely united. “How much the sick and suffering, especially the dying, need our prayers and our compassionate love and service.”  

(The sisters would walk on by St. Faustina’s room as she endured thirst and pain which the sisters could have assuaged. One nun stood for an hour at the foot of St. Therese's bed as she was dying with a leering, mocking sneer.) 

  

There are no ‘little’ acts of compassion.  That day even the blazing, burnt copper aspens quaked in mourning, moaning in the bitter heavings of the cold winter wind.

Capt. David S. Mitchell, along with all who have perished in this war against the tyranny of terrorism , may you rest in peace.
                                                  _________

Winter’s Wall              

 Blood flows red, ne’er blue, tho’ darker shades staining years

Cadenced pulse, crashed waves, evergreen sappings pummel fears.

Cryin’ blue, stone gray, crimson tidals drenching earth.

Powdery mists softly kiss dew forms stilled from mirth.

Winter white cloaked mule and deer, ancient brick-stone wall,

Celebrates punctured arch gate, time-limned in stone’s fall.

Flecked granite, limestone, gneiss-ed lining, in blood strewn

Gentle tears, frozen, borne through terror, sculpted, hewn.

Vibrant, leaves, lively coursing veins, betray held hues;

Autumnal swirlings, wild wisks, thrilling life imbues.

Sleeping forms silent ‘neath soft moss, save single cross;

Memories, soul tunes, tender, marking sorrowed loss.

~(c) 9/22/10