These days the tears come easily. Already they are rolling down my cheeks, and in my throat I feel the stone I can’t remember swallowing. Lord, if only you had been here. To my surprise, I hear the sound of Jesus weeping. He doesn’t stop, not even when my tears have dried up, and the wailing that has been gathering in my chest deflates like a worn-out tire. In fact, it is at that moment, when I have no words, when I am dumber than a dog who can at least whine for mercy, that the Spirit takes up his cry. A wail so human that it could have been mine rises like incense before the Father. It does not cease. This, somehow, is comforting to me. It is a reassurance that I’ve not gone mad, that my faith has not been found wanting, that so long as there is love there will be lament, until the beloved comes home.