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Arise Lord! Deliver me, my God! I cry. My son lifts his mouth in a half-smile at me over dinner and promises, “It’s okay, Mom.” “No, it’s absolutely not okay!” I belt out across the table, weeping furiously. “It is wrong.” It isn’t fair.
There is a young man down the block that is bullying my son, and I’d like to take some angry-David-in-the-Psalms action out on that boy. Mama’s on a rampage, and I’m digging David’s call for God’s jaw-striking and teeth-breaking deliverance against his enemies in Psalm 3, ready to pour some of that out on my enemy, who has threatened to hurt my son with his fists.

The still light of late autumn leaked through the trees, illuminating two large statues in the middle of the woods on the monastery property. We had hiked there together guided by veteran visitors.