Mass Suicide

Rain. Sigh. I must drag myself to work early to open the Library, despite the fact that the students are not yet returned from their Easter "vacation," flung to the far corners of awayness to be with their friends and families in celebration of Christ's resurrection. But someone has to do it, and I, being the morning person that I have always been, am the most likely candidate. Besides, its my assigned day.

So I wearily slide my feet out from the protective warm cocoon of my blankets and pad to the bathroom to begin preparations. I ought to be bouncing with joyous celebration of the best holiday of the year! I stare in the mirror at my puffy eyes, my disheveled hair, my sagging shoulders and wonder where my joy has gone.

The gray skies and slick roads do not lift my spirits as I point my car towards Elmgrove Road and edge my way through slow morning traffic. The radio does nothing to cheer me up, blaring some avant garde ugly thing. I turn it off and drive in silence save for the squeak of wipers against the watery windshield. The gray sky reflects my tiredness.

I park in the nearly empty lot, retrieve the paper from the mailbox, and head into the building, umbrella spread wide against the pelting rain. As I walk up the blacktop, I notice a long thick night crawler sluggishly stretch its length, trying to get somewhere else. Yes, I think. Perhaps somewhere else the skies will be blue, the air warm and friendly, the people filled with joy.

Then I notice that there are more worms on the blacktop. Lots of them. I stop for a moment to investigate while the rain tap dances on my umbrella. In fact, there are tons of worms scattered across the pavement and sidewalk. Most of them lie still. Too still. They are dead. Some are mangled, probably stepped on and squished. Some are half eaten. Some are water logged and swollen. Some are curled in a circle. A few, precious few, have a bit of half hearted movement at one end or the other, vain attempts to get off the blacktop and back into the grass.

What on earth? I know worms usually show up after a rain, but what induced all these creatures to scramble from their dirt homes to certain death, exposed in the open with no chance of burrowing to safety? Was there so much rain that their homes were flooded and they were in danger of drowning? I know worms breath through their skin, and can take oxygen from water. Maybe they came to feast on the rain, like some sick orgy, and ended up dead.

Poor babies. They survived the cold harsh winter deep in their burrows, only to expire at the first sign of reprieve. I can hardly bring myself to step gingerly over their dead bodies and gain entrance to the Library. How sad. I shake myself. They are only worms. There are millions of them in one small grassy area. Pull yourself together, woman. Still, it seems right that it be rainy and gray today, mourning the loss of so many innocents. And not just the worms, mind you. But the loss of so many who ought not to have died, who did nothing to deserve an early grave.

The world sometimes does mourn injustice. Indeed, the world is filled with stories of injustice lately. So much devastation. So much war. So much calamity. Today seems to be one of those mournful days. I am touched by the memories of those I knew who left this world early. All the while I am unlocking the Library and unfurling the services, I lift my heart in prayer for those who mourn such loss. And I ask the Spirit to bring soon the rainbow of promise, the hope of better days ahead.