Did they not have stories read or sung to 
     them when they were little, like lullabies 
          when they were in the crib and colorful, 
story books in their little beds? Did they 
     not hear the fairy tales and later did they 
          not read Raul and C.S. and J.R.R.? And 
the poems, the sing-song poems filled 
     with fun and wonder? Were they not able 
          to blend those stories with their emerging 
stories? Did their parents not walk them 
     in nature so they could talk to the trees 
          and scamper with the rabbits and hear the 
melodies of the birds as the beautiful
     birds sang their stories? Did they not get 
          their feet wet in the creek and watch the 
fish swim by and hear their parents tell 
     them that one day they would swim with the 
          fish? And as they got older, did they not 
hear the wonderful stories of faith, the 
     blending of the eternal verities of myths 
          with history? Was there no context except
being rocked in the cradle of resentments, 
     blame, fear, finger-pointing, scapegoating 
          inherited from those who themselves had never 
really heard the sacred stories of life? How 
     can they ever know the beautiful, glorious 
          children of love they are without the stories?
 
*idea from a meditation by Richard Rohr, 01/10/2020