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Pandora’s Drawer

February 13, 2012

(Inspired this morning by Amy Moffitt‘s masterful liturgy on anxiety, featuring readings of Psalm 37 and a passage from Job, and a lament by the poet herself.)

There is a drawer in Dad’s dresser.  He’s told us not to look.  Not in anger, but in love:  “Daughters and sons, it’s not meant for your eyes– you don’t want to know”.

But we need to know.  Not out of rebellion, but out of love. If our Dad has the drawer, it must be important.  If he cares about it, we want to care, too.

So we look.  We sneak in there on a sunny Sunday afternoon, and we slide the drawer open slowly.  It is a very heavy drawer, and it seems to have no bottom.  It is filled with sadness and sorrow.  The suffering of many people.

We can barely get it shut.

We never tell Dad, but he knows.  He looks at us differently, and we at him.  It seems something like a weary solidarity.

We can never decide if we’re glad we looked.  But we looked, and we know.

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