The Cloud of Witnesses

One can almost hear them whispering, knowing they are linked to us and more intense than memory they cannot stay within their tombs, for by some sort of grace not understood we lack the power to leave them to their faded history. How many meadows set away accommodate the dead, accommodate this surging love that inundates our days? How may we take into our hearts the light these spirits share, their passion to reach out to us, to let us know their world and ours is one? I think it may be up to us to seize this holy joy, remembering there is no separation, only change. Remembering the presence always known before when oceans intervened. And what of science and of doubt? What of the white-stolled priest and of his vial of dust? What of my quailing faith? The stars crash down around me. The trembling mountain that I did not see now looms before me, shaking me. Shall I become the one to turn away? ~