“Why art thou cast down, Oh my soul?”
“Why do you write like you’re running out of time?”
“Why aren’t you running for office again?”
“These things I remember as I pour out my soul”,

“how I used to go to the house of God
under the protection of the Mighty One
with shouts of joy and praise among the festive throng”;

The festive throng,
like those at The Pulse
or The Bataclan.

Yes. I feel God is calling me,
calling me to something important,
something I do not yet know
or understand.

Yet the path seems unclear,
the hurdles insurmountable.
What can I do
in the face of such suffering?

How much difference
does my smile,
kind word,
or prayer
for the homeless
alcoholic
in the street
near my office
make in a world
where one deranged man
can easily kill fifty?

How can I make a difference
when it seems like such a struggle
to simply provide for my family
and help keep the house clean?

How can I find joy
amidst all the suffering
toil
and fatigue?

So I write,
“like it’s going out of style”,
and pray
and say a kind word
to those around me
who are suffering
even more than I am.

It’s all I can do,
the rest is up to God.