Barbs of disease, desertion, divorce, and death have always ripped the fabric of our humanness like a moth-eaten horse blanket tossed into an ash pit: solitary, smelly, and useless. Bereft of initiative and energy, we wallow in grief’s madness.

Stories from our long-ago shadowy past abound with versions of this madness, including its critical separation from our Source. Whichever story we draw from, our psyches sting and clamor for deliverance. The uproar, now global, continues.

Despite protective measures, Zoom, and other approaches for keeping together, disease and death still stalk us: their numbers featured in news outlets, together with wrangling over shortages of the vaccine. Desertion and divorce also fuel the statistics. Were it not for prayer, the critical thread to our Source, grief would totally engorge us in despair and more loss of life.

Jesus reminds us, Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted: the paradox of grief stitched into Baptismal garments of Kingdom living. It continues teaching me to let go of the fabric of my life as I’ve experienced it, over eighty-five years. At some future time, my terminal illness will cut its thread and I’ll be home. A hospice patient, I’m not eligible for the vaccine.

I’ve heard the thread is silver.