It was 2:45 P. M., the world has abruptly changed its perspective: sky shimmers with dark lightening, droplets engorge themselves as they coalesce and careen down drains, and thunder like tom-toms echo across valleys to neighboring tribes: some explosively loud. A siren wails. Distress weeps. Rivers of mud obliterate trails. Where are we?

Such images implode my world when suddenly swamped by grief, seemingly unrelated to the humdrum task of scraping remnants of baked cheese from casserole bowls in the sink. The heaviness—unannounced, undesirable, unwanted—trounces my psyche rendering me numb and staring into space until the heaviness begins to dissipate. I want to cry, the sadness is so trenchant, but the tears remain locked within doorless-rooms.

It is 3:25 P. M. Only the severity of winds, rain, thunder and lightening lessen against the slate-gray sky. Like the remnants of the baked-on cheese, it takes work to remove them. Like prayer, steel-wool helps. More sirens pierce the afternoon’s emerging stillness. And then it is over—until the next untenable intrusion.

Yet with repeated cleansing, the deeper purification.