Saints of Red

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          Today, I want to go into an old, old church, nestled among silence and watching. I want to go where human eyes cannot follow. To be alone and not be strong. To be weak and broken, with only holy stones to witness, unjudging.

          In the still company of angels, I want to lie on the cold stone floors, before the sacred altar, caring not for the shadows of trespassers nor the curious. I want to curl and weep for men and women, children and babies, big and little saints of red. Those known and unknown, who loved Him but who were not loved by some. All who died loving Jesus, bleeding and pleading, at the hands of those who knew Him not.

          It is my time to weep for these little ones with great souls. Unlikely warriors who stood for Jesus against a faith tree-d from violence and hate. Martyrs mocked for being the lambs reviled by the strong. Gentle and meek, faithful and tender, yet blessed with a strength hidden from the sight of the proud, to love their God to the end of ends.

          What worth has tears from one as sinful and fallen as I, I do not know. What value in gold can my weeps measure against prayers? On this sad day when the sun holds court away from the mists that mourn among the sorrowing boughs, no prayer comes to rest on my heart. On this day when I want so much to touch heaven to make sense of the will to kill in the name of God, the words do not come.

          So, I gather my tears and join them now to my Mother’s, for a reason that will light someday.

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