Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison (Part II)

Last night I shared a living room with good folks who are doing the very best they know how in light of the trials of this-here present life. They are biblically literate, strong-hearted believers who have found themselves in various and sundry disadvantageous positions. I suppose that no one (no not one, no not one) was promised an easy go of it, and I suppose it's the difficult go that proves one's true mettle. All mettles aside, though, I woke up last night with Mozart's Kyrie running amok in my noggin. It sounded something like this:

Thinking this kind of circadian-musical interruption to be some sort of a sign, I mustered some prayers for the friends who shared my living room (both last night and in nights gone by). In the event that you suppose me some kind of spiritual giant, think again. My prayers at this hour tend to be little more than a short series of "have mercies" stemming from some well-buried Catholic-Anglican roots.

Though the names and situations of last night's prayer were different than those previously prayed, I was reminded this morning of a piece I wrote in August of 2011. I'm re-posting it here today in the event that one of you might need something along these lines.


Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison

Titus Lee came quietly, squeaking out a mere monosyllabic cry before being passed to his mother’s chest. His eyes are like unrefined coal, blue-black with flecks of brown around the edges. He has dark wisps of hair, olive skin, and delicate fingers. He is the fullest of all potentials.

Lord Have Mercy.

Jimmy called last week. He’d been caught in a series of affairs, he said. It had started with a colleague, moved to an internet lover, rose to a crescendo with a Craigslist posting. Jimmy called less to tell me that he was sorry and more to tell me that I might be hearing some things around town. And by the way, could I help him a little here and there with the legalities of the situation, he asked. There are always legalities.

Christ Have Mercy.

This morning I woke to the sound of the pounding iron fist. Flashes of lightening popped like exploding halogen bulbs and the walls of our tiny apartment shook. The rains have come after too many months without. Two miles away the community farm is coming back to life, and the farmhands are exhaling a collective sigh of relief. The corn and tomatoes have long since withered, but the fall crops are singing praise and promise. He makes all things new.

Lord Have Mercy.

*Photo by Klearchos Kapoutsis, Creative Commons via Flickr.