Midnight Lullaby

Lights are cast across the far wall, starting at one side and racing across to the other to dissapear into the corner; distant sirens shriek; cars rage; horns clamour. These are the background sights and sounds set off by the steady rain tonight.

The raindrops hit the window pain like hundreds of spills which are either rejoiced over or mulled over, but never rebuked. And if the Rainsender brought an end to the tiny spills, even the mullers would cry out for rain. These spills are not the kinds which need not cleansing. Rather, they are cleansing. They are healing, replenishing, creating. The sound of their spattering against the window pane is the sound of so many proclamations of the Rainsender's longsuffering. But this, too, becomes background noise, like the pleas of sirens, the roaring of motors, the yelling of horns, which once meant something to me. The raindrops become the fourth part, the harmony of this midnight lullaby.

I think I am asleep, resting in the palm of the Rainsender's hand, which has become to me so consistent that I think nothing of His stroking my hair in the night, and planting kisses on my kneck. I just rest, as lights races across my visage to display the peaceful expression there.

Only Grace

I have no rights, only priveledges.

Sleep cannot be lost, only gained.

God is not unreasonable for sending people to hell, only unfathomably merciful for allowing to be into His heaven.