One Mite
of Grace
(“It has been granted to
you on behalf of Christ, not only to believe in him, but also to suffer on his
behalf.” Philippians 1:29)
Time has frozen some of the machinery down,
other pieces are worn, gears ground, belts dry as parchment,
and oxidation fills the spaces between nuts and bolts and spacers.
Every joint which first swung freely creaks with effort, to begin
even half a younger man’s backswing. And the follow-through,
we once taught to others at the plate, stops before the shoulder
clicks
with every overhand throw.
I knew my calves would ache about now, my feet sore from standing,
I expected no supple angles, no ground touched with unbent knees.
But I still thought I would swing the racket, chase the high fly balls,
and hunt my slice buried near the adjoining fairway. The serves
would be slower; the drives
would be shorter, and I might make a muffled sound when
bending over to snatch the tee.
But, at 60, I never dreamed I would sit out my favorite play-times
altogether.
So, now I have pain. It never matters where the clock hands point;
the pain remains, and advances. The pain squeezes and takes more chances
with my thinking than I ever did
hoping to make the team. No one can see it, this intimate enemy,
and I rarely let it show, though its armies bombard my cranium
and set fires within my head.
My Loving Jesus, yet and then; is this my promised suffering?
How will it help, now and friend; to paint You beautiful when I barely
sing for minutes before the volume must cease altogether?
And not only me, Sweetest Sovereign, but soulmates who cannot still
rise from their beds. Pain and its alliances have nailed them prone
and tossed them alone. Careers and income blown away; the
dead leaves of dying trees: Shade and Proud.
If our suffering is a gift indeed; let us breathe the mercy
and refuse to waste one mite of grace today.
