The cries of children are like a flute with so many notes depending on the breath and carved holes covered and uncovered. The first cry of a new born the note of celebration. The cry of hunger that draws milk from the mother’s breast. The heartbreaking cry of the first skinned knee or fear of the night. The tears of joy with the first step, word spoken, and other milestones of joy. But the wailing from gunfire, war, and hatred is from the bone of the heart.

Bound by hatred and greed, the ancestors and lineage of children, their own DNA of spirit and soul have been and are being decimated. We have used the wailing of children to clean the blood from our hands and tossed the soiled cloth proclaiming our hands clean. I cannot take the guns from their hands nor the missiles, armies, bombs or words of hate. Nor can I give back the freedom and dignity of broken nations imprisoned upon the land taken from them. Yet the stillness of mediation is shattered by the wailing of children.

Then this morning the reading’s words come back to haunt the shattered meditation. “As my teacher once said, ‘If you could really take away the suffering of everyone in the world, taking all of it into you with a single breath, would you hesitate?'” And I bow my head in humble powerlessness and vow that my breath will fill the gaps of hesitancy. For the wailing of all children, including nature’s, that are lost in lineages of hatred, greed, ignorance and self-righteousness, I will fill the gaps.

*Quote from Ken L. McLeod “Reflections on Silver River”