There’s enough tragedy to go around for everyone.  You never think it’s going to happen to you, until it does.  Then after tragedy happens, you knew you were never above it to begin with.
 
I never knew either of my grandfathers. One was a Mill Iron hand, one was an XIT hand.  One had passed away in a noisy thunderstorm, one had passed away in thunder no one heard.  The officials never found his trigger puller.  
 
Both men were great cowboys, built mostly out of sinew.  One was a devout Catholic.  He died alone.  He said no goodbyes and no one could say goodbye to him.  Those goodbyes got stuck, somewhere between here and there.  But his rosary survived, and I had been honored to unite my prayer with his, until recently that is.
 
I heard Padre Pio was visiting St. Mary’s Cathedral.  I took the rosary and touched it to a blood soaked relic of Padre Pio’s.  Padre had the stigmata, like the wounds of Christ, they always flowed and soaked through.
 
When I was young we had a tragedy here.  I really believe, in my heart, it was a tragedy of misunderstanding, and pain.  I know that my family tried to protect us kids from what had happened, but somehow kids just pick up on things, even when there are no words.  
 
Recently, years after that tragedy here, I was called for a job to where it had happened.  I didn’t need to hear the story, I was prepared when I came.
 
The work took a full day.  I was there with my grandfather’s rosary and Padre Pio.  
 
Padre must have decided he needed to stay there and pray for a while, because he kept my grandfather’s rosary with him.
 
Padre Pio was known for his gift of being in two places at once.  At first I was feeling crippled, not having my grandfather to pray with.  But, I guess my goodbye needed to get unstuck between here and there too.
 
I know my words seem vague, but when you are talking about eternity, times and detail won’t matter that much.  And when you are talking about perpetual intercession by all the angels and saints, our sins, and our tragedy doesn’t seem so heavy, and forgiveness seems a priority.
 
Somewhere on a ranch road, in the dirt and rock, a small set of black beads and crucifix, marks the spot where the blood of forgiveness continues to flow, in spite of our hardened hearts.