For
some celestial reason, only very
awkward
angels who don’t excel at flight,
stumble
over prayer, bumble through
the
simplest tasks of rendering angelic care
are
called upon to sit by those in
the
unthinkable abyss of having lost a child.
Somehow
in their affectionate ineptitude,
their
fumbling loving delicate success
consists
in their persuasively providing,
better
than all other angels, the only certainty
with
which a shattered heart can reconcile:
God is not a horror show. God is mild.
.
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