As Selene flew, she passed over the valley and saw them: the little stone churches, the wooden chapels, the grand cathedrals whose bells had once rung like promises. It was where the whole community once congregated.
Some glowed with those comfort hues of flax, windows lit by candlelight and quiet singing that filled the silence in the air. Within those walls, children were being rocked and promised they were beloved. They were carried to safety on hymns older than sorrow—wiser than tomorrow. Those houses of worship had become beacons, and the people inside opened their doors wide to every trembling soul who would enter.
But the others…
They stood dark, doors barred from within. From their steeples poured not light but harsh, bitter scarlet-red judgment. Words meant to heal had turned into stones. Promises of belovedness became daggers in the night. Children who looked different, loved different, believed different, or simply asked the wrong question were pushed out into the cold—left to fend for themselves, shunned by grace, living a nightmare all its own.
“Suffer the little children to come unto me.”
And high above, Mary—the Sacred Heart who stands at every crossroads of the world—watched.
She saw the hearts that were saved, yet ached for the ones condemned. She saw the same Holy Book offered as bread to one child and used as a weapon against another.
And Mary wept.
Not the gentle, glistening tears that light a moon-soaked sky. These were the tears of a mother who feels every slammed door in her own chest—the deep, tearing ache of knowing her baby is in pain. These were the tears that fall when the place built for forgiveness becomes the place of deepest harm.
Her tears fell upward, against gravity, straight into the heart of God.
They struck like hammers, shattering into His being.
“Why do they use My name to break what I died trying to mend?”
God’s heart—already scarred with old wounds—cracked open again. A soundless cry rippled across the heavens, so deep the stars trembled and eternity stood still.
That was the moment the tear-river in the valley began to rise.
Selene felt it first: the salt of divine grief mixing with the salt of children’s terror.
Asha felt it second: the same ache she once carried when grown-ups told her God could not love a child who hid in closets.
And somewhere, in the highest room of the highest heaven, Mary knelt among the pieces of God’s broken heart and began—very quietly—to sing the oldest lullaby of all.
It is the same lullaby Berta hums over the stove when no one is watching.
The same lullaby Kelly’s purr carries when he catches tears in his fur.
The very same one the faeries are now gathering into flax-seed lanterns to light the way.
Because some children are saved inside the churches.
Some children are shattered there.
And Love—refusing to choose between them—sends grandmothers, cats, moon-girls, warrior-women, and tiny winged lights to the riverbank with potato pancakes and open arms.
Mary’s tears do not stop falling.
But every tear that reaches Berta’s Table is caught, kissed, and turned into warm milk with honey.
My child, my dove, come back to me.
And God watches—waits—hopes—has faith in us, that one day the people inside the steeples will remember whose children they all are.
Asha is on her way.
Lior heard the cry; it was the same one that once knotted his hair. He was ready.
Kelly knew it was time—he had been waiting a long time.
Lands across the globe are ringing with the very same cry. It does not matter how they worship, who their leaders are, or the color of their skin. This cry crosses every border men ever drew. The children—the ones who held it in the longest—are finally finding their voice.
Yes, little one, the pain is finally being heard.
Do not fear. Our warriors have been waiting for this day so your dreams may take flight on faery wings and soar into the night.
Love can now enter, and hearts will heal.
Sweet dreams—owl feathers—silver strands of care.
It’s ready.
It sings.
It will reach every closet the world has ever locked a child inside.
Sleep now, you are safe.
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This chapter is dedicated to Saint Nicholas Catholic Church in Evanston, IL.
It was where I ran to when I was a little girl, one blk up Washington Street -from the apartment
where I lived next door to Mike and John. Mike, a returning vet from Vietnam, molested me. John, older than Mike said he was a teacher - he rode his bike all over town. They had two large dogs, a German Shepherd named Kelly (Ironic, I know) and a Great Dane named Duke. Us children loved those dogs -
I was hurt by these mens presence in my life - hurt in a way no child should. St. Nicks was my quiet place -a place I could go and sit in wonderment of the beautiful stained glass windows.
Unfortunately, now I know places like that for children like me also created the same nightmares I was running from.
Hear the children.
We must.
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