Driving home yesterday with the radio warning of impending tornadoes, I took a photo through the car window, wondering if it would be my last. The threat moved swiftly through the night, with the thunderous bolts of light traveling to nearby States, where it stole homes and lives. And while I awakened to song birds and crisp charged air, others picked up the pieces of their lives.

How can we make sense of tragedy? Flight 370, the Mount Everest avalanche, the South Korean ferry accident, the murderous rampages in our schools..... We want to blame someone--the government, global warming, ideologies and/or religious beliefs, the system (whatever that might be). But in the end, our attempts to understand the horror often fall short of resolution. And, we are left with our tears--for ourselves and for others.

The poet, Ralph Waldo Emerson, wrote: life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood. Sometimes it is only in looking back that we can glean value for what we have endured. Even so, this backwards-looking glimpse does not fully answer the question "why?" And, so it is that many of us continue our quest--to discover or uncover that which seems hidden from reach. 

Our solace is found in beauty, in love, and in the Divine. Perhaps a child's embrace fills our aching heart, maybe a brilliant sunset takes our breath away, or perhaps a heartfelt Gospel song helps us soar. We may not be able to answer the ultimate "why" question, but we experience the whispers of truth throughout our day... and for those whispers, I pray--for all who know suffering.

When I was a young child, countrywomen gathered to sew quilts for celebrations and passings. Mother took us with her when she met with her friends in the basement of the rural Methodist church, beside the dirt road at the edge of the sugar beet fields. We were told to play quietly with our coloring books while they worked. Sometimes we did; other times we did not and chose instead to run wild through the church.

The women stacked their scraps of cloth next to the folded yards of batting on the table near the wall. I saw my dresses there—pieces of them—and wondered about the other striped and flowered samples of fabric. To whom did these fragments belong?

Sometimes I snuck under the stretched material on the large wooden frame and listened as the women stitched and knotted. They talked about their families, about local people, about their hardships, and about love. When they cried, I cried—even if I did not quite understand. It was their emotion that spoke to me. Later I would ask Mom about what I had heard, but she always said it was private, not something for me to know. I was left with just strands of stories—and feelings.

I learned a lot through the tales these women shared. Their cloth leftovers rhythmically sewn one to another helped me see the interconnectedness of life. And now I wonder, aren't we all a quilt of sorts, a patchwork of sorrows and joys? We journey through life choosing between our hopes and our fears, maneuvering between celebrations and tragedies. Ultimately, it seems that we are the quilters of our fate, and how we tie together the pieces of our story creates our unique life masterpiece. 

Earlier this week, my cousin passed away. Death seems to take us by surprise--even when it is expected. But, no one was prepared when it came silently for Lisa. Only thirty years old, she was in the prime of her life when her heart failed, leaving a loving husband and three little children.

Mary Oliver wrote in her poem In Blackwater Woods that, "To live in this world, you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go....to let it go." 

This has been a week of tears--for her husband and children, for her siblings and parents, for all who knew Lisa. She was an angel of sorts, always smiling, always ready to help. Goodbyes seem impossible, because she is everywhere evident. Perhaps, though, we can loosen our grip just enough to let her go. Maybe the great expanse of humankind awaits a glimpse of true goodness--something lovely Lisa provides.