Pleading Behind Old Eyes
(“The purpose
of my instruction is that all believers would be filled with love that comes
from a pure heart, a clear conscience, and genuine faith.” 1 Timothy
1:5)
I wonder when the door
will open,
I fear the day when one comes.
I remember I was with my son on New Year’s Eve,
I have no idea who was not there.
But this transition reminds
me of
Every absence that split open my heart.
While I grabbed my head in pain,
filled my cranium with ice to meet my
obligations,
too many relations waited in office
or alleys,
never venturing in to wrap me in
arms of skin.
For a decade my temples
throbbed as I went about
my job, my call, my vocation that
I always thought
had chosen me. I dreamed of family,
of circles of tears, mists of laughter,
a band of brothers and sisters
who only aimed to love better than the day before.
I hobbled to my duty,
held on to the rails as I
walked down the hospital steps. I phoned because
I could not leave the couch that day. I phoned those
who needed soulful eyes and a hand on their hurt.
Finally, I stopped.
Full-on dead end, no turning around,
no U-turn. They deserved a shepherd who could care for
the sheep. In the end the pain emptied me. Hollow,
I knew I must leave. And yet, for a dozen years
I dreamed of comrades, I imagined playful affection;
all kidding aside, I hoped we could hide inside the sanctuary
that giggles provide. Some of us were too serious, others too
hurt. Some were stone, wanting to be softer. Some were
oblivious, and some had their own lives contracted
by needles in their body, brain or heart. We used to touch,
but with some of them and
some of me
subtracted, the distance grew apart.
I retired far too early.
The pain would not negotiate
with my heart. But I never loved less. I think I may
have loved more.
Two and a half years ago
I walked out the door
of the place we met to wonder about wonder,
to feel Spirit sing through human things,
and to watch the children dance noisily before
the meetings ever began. Perhaps disorder is the
way of the Spirit
when we prefer that little voices pipe down
so adults can hear the word of the Lord.
And we aimed South for a
year and a half,
then returned to the beautiful hamlet we left.
Out my back door is wilderness and a couple
of rabbits that visit in the Spring. Out the front
are fruit trees and flowers that paint our windows
and, if I let them, spill their aromas inside my dreams.
But still,
I wonder when the door will open,
I fear every day when no one comes.
I remember I was at someone’s bedside,
I remember weddings and babies,
baptisms and weeping,
children and jellybeans,
and the wonder that God was in it all.
But now,
I wonder,
when is it my turn,
(my head hurts like hell today),
when is it my turn
for the human touch
now for me?
The house is empty except
for
my chihuahua and me.
My music plays constantly, keeping
my worst notions at bay.
Please, take one long
look in my face and
see the pleading behind old eyes that have always
smiled for those who could not find their own.
