Sorrow for Wisdom

    I came upon this woman in the hospital sanctuary.  I almost missed her as I began to pass the open door.  The voice I heard escaping the room just caught me.  The chapel in all its decorative wood and lilies placed lavishly across the mantel hid the light skinned woman in her two-toned earth brown top and skirt.  She was singing—no, not actually singing, more like a talk-sing, a mantra, a lovely blend of sound.  I would have never noticed the accent, except when she sobbed a prayer, and that speech brought me to her eyes; I had to see those eyes, the doorway into the soul—blue; no, green; no, gold; changing with each lament she made, with each sound, each pattern of tone.  It’s hard to describe the musical quality flowing from her lips in a musical way, in any way.  And the sound, the sound cascading over the lilies, the wood, flooding the room like a giggling brook; but I knew, even with the beautiful sound there was sorrow, deep sorrow.  It didn’t matter I couldn’t understand, she brought light into a hopeless heart, and oddly the light identified with the sorrow, called the sorrow, asked the sorrow for wisdom, spoke to the pain.