BENEDICTION FOR SLOVAKIA Nick McRae
Numbers 6:24-26
Bless Jozef Ruman and the house his sons moved home to build with him, the mother dead ten years, and bless the sweating cups of ice and young white wine the three men palm together, silent, the floorboards settling beneath them. Bless Villam Ondrla who, half-drunk, shovels snow and watches families traipse sure-footed down the lanes he cleared. Lord, bless the sons he never had, the wife he’ll never lose, his bare apartment. Bless them, Father, keep them. Bless the Roma children dotting sidewalks everywhere, all coatless, laughing, flinging rocks at gutted, crumbling tenements circling the train yard. Bless their idle hands. Father, turn your face to shine upon them. Bless all the men who’ve seen more flags than most men ever see unfurled above their streets— and bless the fading Hapsburg-era glamour of flaking gold foil, plaster cracked and soot stained, the spired cathedrals empty, wreathed in lichen. Lord, Bless the towering blocks of pre-fab flats— their fuchsias, ochres, pastel blues, and yellows where the Communist grays and whites had been— and bless the singer on the street proclaiming “Slováci ožijú”—the Slovaks will revive.
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