I’m stained red. As are you.
Stained red by time’s swift passing.
Ever wonder about those marks on our throats and on our hands?
Those marks come from windburn, from desert frost, and from searing light. We got them while we were rocketing on the Bonneville Salt Flats at 600 hundred miles per hour.
600 hundred miles per hour, with a turbo jet engine and a parachute.
Except our parachute has a hole. It’s got no drag and so we move forward even as we step on the brakes.
Only God knows our trajectory. A God who directs the steps of man, who heals the lame and clothes the naked. A God who frees the captive and causes the sun to rise and set.
There are some who say: “Man plans, and God laughs.” I don’t believe in that. There is only empathy beyond reckoning, beyond reason.
And so as we mourn the passing of all those come and gone. As we mourn our diminishing power with our still-keen senses, it’s God that cries more than we.
That’s how the oceans and lakes were formed, and also, how rain came to be.
Everywhere are tears for us, who stained red, are racing across the desert floor with our turbo jet engines, at 600 miles per hour.
Without a decent parachute to slow us down.