The Weeping City

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Through a windshield splattered with mud and rain—

Rain that speckles, trickles, and slides—

I watch the city rush by.

Reflected on puddles, windows, and mirrors, I see lights—

Orange lights, green lights, red and blue blinking.

I see trucks and semis, cars and buses—

Weaving in and out, honking, splashing, and wailing.

I see structures in this city—

Condos, malls, skyscrapers, shanties,

Made of concrete, glass, and rain.

Above naked trees draped in fluttering plastic,

I see rock doves circling, gliding, and swooping down

To settle on rusty train cars that jangle and creak.

I also see people in this city,

Sidestepping those puddles, cruising in those cars,

Leaning in those arching doorways, striding across the concrete.

People of all shapes, sizes, and colors.

Laughing people, chattering people, silent people.

Little innocent people playing hide and seek around store displays,

Or holding their mama’s hand as they traipse off to school.

Lonely, cold people curled on the ledge of a grand building,

Or scooting bikes and wheelchairs down an empty sidewalk.

Confident, comfortable people in suits, carrying coffee in hand,

Or reveling in the mirth of their friends flitting around them.

Comfortable people like me.

Through the weeping clouds,

Someone watches this city rush by.

He sees the lights, hears the wails, and feels the chill—

The chill in the hearts of these people that bustle about.

He knows each one by name.

He knows the person who perished in that horrible crash.

I only know we wasted precious time in clogged traffic.

He loves that straggly-haired, drooping man smoking at the corner.

I only turned away in repulsion.

He knows that frustrated grocery worker who muttered his irritations.

I only chided him inwardly.

He loves that teenager who scuffled along with eyes glued to her screen.

I only dodged out of her way.

He knows every businessperson who sits on that 16th floor framed in glass.

I only gaped at the impressive office complex.

He knows the expressions of every face concealed behind a mask.

I avoided their eyes, smiled occasionally, and bustled on.

Does God also see the rain?

Does He hear the wailing sirens?

Yes, He knows the tears and cries of these people,

While I only see hollow eyes and limp smiles.

Does He perhaps cry with them

While I sit snugly behind a windshield that deflects the cold, dreary rain?

I’m returning to the quiet country roads of home

To my sheltered community knit with love.

The city with all its clanging, bustle, and concrete slips away,

Farther and farther behind me.

Do those people know God knows and loves them?

I did not tell them so.

God knows me too.

When He looks down through the weeping clouds,

And through the rain-spattered windshield,

What does He see in me?

There must be concrete in my heart too.

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