Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Sit. Wait. Pray.


Waiting.
Minutes sling their slow long arc.
Another page, monotone intercom background clutter.
Tired of this seat, built for that waiting room look.
Gotta find a coffee. Take the stairs.  
Has it just been 15 minutes?
Waiting for a baby.  
The one I waited for so many years ago now struggles to deliver her own.
And I, once-removed from the slow sure crescendo,
Am out of the center, not even supporting cast.
The children take our place,
Their turn on the stage,
Their life driving the world.
While we wait for others to act,
Others to suggest,
Others to decide.
The long slow fade begins, grey around the edges.
The panning lens catches new subjects,
Whose beauty is still fresh,
Whose faults still not so obvious.
Dread creeps in under the door, around the edges.
I’m old enough to know what could go wrong.
I cannot be with them.
I cannot not be there.
And so I keep vigil, powerless to help.
I can only pray, 
And attempt with quiet words to move this mountain.
If I said nothing, if I were not even here, 
Would this grandson come, this daughter kept safe?
This thread makes no difference to the fabric of this hospital, 
Is nothing in the crazy quilt of this universe.
But God beyond reason partners with such nothings to make His something.
It makes no sense, the definition of insanity.
Even so I sit.  And wait.  And pray.
And wait, and wait, and wait.