Comfort your people of West Bengal and Bangladesh
who have been torn by the winds,
made homeless by the waters,
injured by falling buildings and debris,
the bridges washed away, coast ravaged,
roads blocked, trees ripped up by their roots.
Comfort those who grieve,
give strength to those who are rescuing
those not yet secured,
and searching for survivors.
Guide those who care for the injured,
and shelter the evacuated,
fearful of Covid-19,
which has already taken so many.
Lead those who try to bring in
food and medicine and relief supplies
where ways are impassible.
And as people emerge today
seeking what is left of their lives,
connecting with family, hunting for home —
in the midst of the rains that continue,
give, O God,
hope, tenderness in loss,
companionship in rebuilding
and the compassion of the world.
(I know that it is strange for me to wait and write twice today about such disasters within an hour. I feel that each must be prayed, the eighty who died here wept for, the losses held in love.)