He was died
In my new devotional routine, the first hour or so is devoted solely to the Bible. Pen and coffee cup in hand, I just read. I read until my heart tells me to stop. I re-read familiar texts that my eye wants to skim over. I go back to curious sentences that I normally discount for the real jewels.
Then comes breakfast and the New York Times. Again, it's a slow read, making sure I read what are important and not just salacious. By that time Martha is up and padding around the house with her coffee cup surveying the overnight damage done by gophers (did I mention that the word "gopher" had now advanced to a form of curse?).
After breakfast and newspaper, I then open up overnight emails. Today's email pierced our hearts. The young man who was fighting his own interior battles in the apartment above us this summer died. He fought schizophrenia, and burst into loud arguments at 3 am breaking furniture and retreating into his own world of torment. We were there with the family when the authorities gently removed him to a psychiatric facility, upping his level of supervision and care.
But this week, on a warm day, he slipped out of the hospital. Later (I don't know if it was hours or days) they found him. His aunt, our good, good friend wrote to us in English and grief. Her syntax mistake became an echoing cry of heart eloquence when she ended the letter with "And he was died". Pacem!