As I was driving home down my tree-lined street, a tiny shadow streaked toward my rear wheels, faster than a blink. Before the realization dawned that I'd actually seen something, a sickening thump told me the speeding blur was … had been … a squirrel. I shouted out, “No! I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
To Whom should contrition be directed?
How often I’ve mumbled, "The light in me acknowledges the light in you." The light of God.
I father death beneath my tires and cause the anonymous demise of small helpless beings every day all day long across the planet. I drowned the toddler whose family was fleeing the bombs I was dropping on Syria.
I long to turn away from the light of God in me. The responsibility crushes my heart.
To Whom should contrition be directed?
How often I’ve mumbled, "The light in me acknowledges the light in you." The light of God.
I father death beneath my tires and cause the anonymous demise of small helpless beings every day all day long across the planet. I drowned the toddler whose family was fleeing the bombs I was dropping on Syria.
I long to turn away from the light of God in me. The responsibility crushes my heart.