Today, the prayers are punctured with cannon shot.
Today, the river runs red with mud, swollen with the memories of lives swept away.
Today, children stand in the rain and ask what all the pretty poppies are for.
And I pause and look at the guns and wonder how to explain all this to the innocent.
I pull back the curtain on human hurt, just a bit, just enough, I hope, to reveal something of sadness and thankfulness. What it all comes down to – not enough love in our hearts. We humans, we can die for lack of love.
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee.
This is the only way to peace. This is the only thing stronger than death. This is the only thing that can overcome “all this.”
Today, let every heart bloom red with love, lest all these pretty poppies be in vain.
You have a way of piercing to the heart of a matter, my friend. All this carnage – for want of love.
And yet when hatred rose up, love – of God, of family, of country, of freedom – raised up a blood-red standard against it: one where poppies bloom more readily than when time dulls that memory.
May we always remember. And be thankful.