Seal Five; Seal One

"... an army of pure desperation and hate. Young Stanleyville boys and old village men, anyone who can find a gun or a machete, all banded together. They tie nkisis of leaves around their wrists and declare themselves impermeable to bullets, immune to death. And so they are, Anatole says, 'For how can you kill what is already dead?'"
-- Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible


In some ways I find it very sad that the great tiring of the age is coming upon much of society. It manifests itself as decadence, as senseless violence, as crimes against humanity so great as to completely defy understanding. It is present in the binge culture, in the drug culture, in the weekend culture; it rules the arms trade, and the corporate hand, and the casual destruction of community. It eats relationships and attacks commitment. It is the great feeling of hopelessness and despair and inevitability that sweeps inexorably through society again and again.

And yet for all this there is hope. Even in the midst of it, perhaps even because of it, comes something new. For in the destruction of bonds comes freedom; in the destruction of community comes independence. Before the storm comes a restlessness, a looking to the red sky that foreshadows change. And change is coming: a time when those who should despair from their lonliness will walk the world in solitude and leave it changed; a time when those who should lay down and die from their hopelessness will enter the battle unafraid and emerge unscathed as conquerers - more than conquerers. A time is coming when the broken ones, those from broken homes in broken communities in broken nations will rise up with undivided hearts to change the face of the world forever. For when we are without bonds we are without hope; when we are without hope we are without fear; and when we are without fear we will pass untouched through the ranks of an an enemy that cowers in terror. Make no mistake: there will be none who stand before the eyes of those who come in the surety of their hopelessness to the gates of the enemy.

Once again, I am left looking to the red skies.

The Rain

"While I sat there a ragged man came --
Bummed a coffee, talked awhile
Told me stories full of wonder --
Left me laughing like a well-loved child."
-- Bruce Cockburn, A Montreal Song


He wasn't ragged as such, but today I met a man on the train who made my day. It wasn't anything particularly special - he was singing this song to himself as we trundled home through the dark, just watching the rain scudding past the city lights, and he must have noticed me watching him in the reflection, because he turned and smiled a little self-consciously. Normally I would probably just smile and look away, but something about rain and music and trains brings out the best (or at least the Touchstone, as it were) in me: so I commented on his good voice and his good choice of song, and we talked about nothing for two or three minutes until he got off, a stop before me.

So, despite the fact that we probably live within a few miles of one another, listen to the same music, recognise the same self-deprecating mannerisms, I doubt we'll ever see or hear from one another again. But it got me thinking a little bit, as chance encounters usually do - maybe there's more to praying for rain than just water.