This was published July 5th on the Episcopal Cafe.
The previous day, I had visited with my new friends: a refugee family from the Congo living in Cleveland. “There will be fireworks,” I told them. “Oh no!” The parents exchanged looks brimming over with buried memories. “We don’t like fireworks. In the war, they mean death.” That’s why I wanted them to be prepared, I told them. They would hear many explosions. It would be important to know that they are safe.
As the gunpowder smoke settles, and the stink of its breath is erased from the nostrils, Lamb of God, have mercy on those whose dreams are disturbed by the memory of death.
Read the rest of the prayer here.