Let us pray on his behalf, O Lord, since he does not know the extent of his weakness.
His is the Power. With the stroke of a pen. But the President’s signatures are as overstated as his blow-dried yellow hair.
With twirly curls and BIG LETTERS, the President writes upon the world the way a child places himself in it (The White House….The Earth, The Solar System, The Universe).
All the while pouting, droopy-eyed, for the cameras, as young women pucker up and glare down for endless selfies.
He knows (or shows) it not, O Lord, but this is Old America weakened by 60 petulant years of never having to grow up.
If given to prayer, I would……
For the Iraqi interpreter who was allowed in eventually. Having clasped the many hands of Uncle Sam’s finest, then clapped in irons at JFK.
For the medical student and her tight-lipped smile, hardly daring to believe, not risking anything as her father made it through Immigration on a waiver.
For the wizened old Muslim man barred by riot cops from handing out free pizzas to airport protesters (‘pizza pies’, as New Yorkers continue to say, native or not).
For the known unknowns, prevented as of 4.42pm EST Friday 27 January 2017 from showing their face in the American West; and all the unknown unknowns, who now will never even apply.