The sky will weep, will pour out gray and chill over the yard, will create a large mud puddle under the swing, next to the cherry tree and along the side of the house where the gutter has carved a slow hole into the ground.  The children will put on their rain boots, their waders, their jackets and their bear hats, gather bowls from the kitchen and their sand toys and claim puddles as ferociously and adamantly as the barbarians claimed villages.  They'll war and then make peace, repeat.  And you'll watch them from the inside while you do your own weeping, warring, fervent praying.  You'll stumble at first Please let it all be okay but you can pray holier prayers than that and Thank you.  Thank you for loving him more than I ever will, thank you for being good and perfect and holy.  Thank you for gently mending us, wether here or there and for always, always keeping us.  

The sky will weep.  Isolation and pandemics and even scarier things: natural disasters, war, fallen heroes, cancer, will snake its way into your life and you may find yourself leaning over the washing machine with your head down (how does your body know to do this, to make the tears, the shallow breaths, the pounding heart) but then the resolve rooted in deep faith pushes back.  You were just the other day exclaiming to him over the power of The Word and its great ability to elevate friendships, perspective, life during these strange and cold times.  Verses, true promises-- they all fly in the face of the dark, preach light and hope and confidence no matter the situation it’s our sword! and during my most weary prayers, when words are hard, I picture His arms.  Those great, everlasting arms we sing about and read about in the Psalms and I see myself collapsing into them, completely engulfed and at rest.  Often that scene is the greatest, strongest prayer I know.