Send Down the Rain

by Charles Martin

When people become afraid on a soul level, when the terror of their lives has taken up residence in their belly, it becomes the wall behind which they sequester themselves. The only way through is to tunnel under.

I’d seen the damage we people do to one another. I’d done some myself. Soul-wounds are scars on the inside, etched with permanent ink.

Twice a day, the beach cleaned itself. Leaving no residue of yesterday. Maybe that’s why we liked it.

There’s a problem with spending your whole life trying to get back to good. Sometimes on the way back, you bump into the bad. And bad doesn’t care. Bad is just bad. It likes it that way. And the bad is always hell-bent on you never getting back to good.

Love rushes in where others won’t. Where the bullets are flying. It stands between. Pours out. Empties itself. It scours the wasteland, returns the pieces that were lost, and it never counts the cost.”