Now: One through 6

Now: One through 6

“I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.” John 10:11

Overnight the heat gave way to cool and sweet break of day;
the sighs slowed, the groans lower than the pain they
displayed until waking faded away. Had I another choice,
another pasture to roam,
I would find freer green, warmer sod, a happy flock
without an axe to grind.

But I am now, I am here. I am the center with a radius
of a half hour in any direction. Most days the circle is split
at only 100 yards. Pain is the rusty nail that has secured my head
to the pillow on this bed. I cried day, before the pain invaded without
a word of invitation, or a note from its mother. I count them down
each November:

1 year, 2. 3 years, now 4. Five (no, not 5), and now six without
relief. The hammer hit the nail the moment my body was splayed
spread eagle and defenseless. Invisible wounds from nuclear weapons
chinking the aluminum foil armor, the only defense I had left.

I had men who called themselves shepherds. But they spoke abused
and drove us, berated us and drove us to the edge of town with
a gift certificate to Red Lobster and said “have a good life, God
bless your endeavors.” And, before we were seated for our last
Valentine lunch, these ranch-hands called the management to
convince them we were not worth the serving. Now how much
were that gift certificate and holy word worth?

I am bored, and 7 years angry, for shepherds who would wound
the sheep who only wanted a place to call home.

I would have walked away, I know You know that,
if it were not for a Shepherd so Good, that despite the artillery
whistling overhead, not only lead me, but surrounded me,
as I had been de-gunned at the border. Helpless, hopeless,
heartless and tears less valuable for their volume, I still
sing the pain in overwrought screeches.

And yet, for my protests, my anger, my betrayals,
my deft portrayal as more innocent than any knows,
You chose to lay it all down, to be thrust into the ground,
rusty nail-spiked into the wood, and the silly gold crosses we wear
should carry the blood of the only One who Cared more about
healing the nearly dead than investigating their sins and diagnosing
the cause of their pain.