Note to the Reader

Note to the Reader

(Those whom the Lord has paid for and set free will return. They will come to Zion with singing. Joy that lasts forever will crown their heads. They will be glad and full of joy. Sorrow and sad voices will be gone. Isaiah 35:10)

A day and a half in bed,
the pain battered my body until it finally gave in
and would not move into the morning beams across the sheets.
Though I tried; brushed my teeth, combed my hair, my body
refused to rise longer than it took to put my toothbrush down.

Over ten years creeping to my office,
calling dear ones, reading with half my understanding
hiding behind my skull.
Writing sermons for a sunny Sunday,
and laying in bed on every Saturday,
I was cornered by the hammers that never relented,
that bulldozed the memories of the epoch

Before the pain.
Calls at 2 a.m. and racing to the hospital.
The homeless friends whose needs never end,
the hope that the next home I visited would laugh
at my mistakes.

But this time, this church, this pastor had no ease, forced humor,
and fewer friends because the moments he battled the pain were split
between the neediest,
and his need for naps. Vacations were spent on couches
with his children,
or in bed in the Caribbean. The beach could wait until the pain
might abate.

He burned more energy, saw fewer people, prayed fewer minutes,
left early and arrived late; all to conserve the quarter tank allotment of
every single day.

He cried more than he laughed. He stumbled more than he led.
He wanted someone to see him, see him as he was;
a brittle body with a head on fire and a soul thinner than onion skin.
He wanted a friend to simply take his hand, stroke his head,
sit in silence, offer him wine, bake him bread, not be offended
when he said

He wasn’t clear where his faith had gone these days. The more he
prayed
the more the pain
pulled the skin tighter over his head.

And so he left the only thing he ever loved. He resigned. He moved.
And spent this last weekend; Saturday and half of Sunday; in bed.

Note to the reader: Perhaps the Scripture and poem do not match. That is the point, I think. For my present experience belies my belief that my purpose has not diminished, though the disabling pain increases. I am not without hope. I am weary, torn, lonesome and no longer tempted to lie so people will not worry about my spiritual state. For this last season of my life, I shall be, attempt to be, attempt always to be, truly real.